


Within Their Hearts Shall You Surrender

by mstigergun



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Original Character(s), Politics, Post-Ending, Relationships That Need Work, Sprawling Schemes, Tevinter, Tevinter Imperium, post-Inquisition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-08 03:46:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 125,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3194087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mstigergun/pseuds/mstigergun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Duty calls, and Dorian must answer: when a letter arrives from an old acquaintance asking for Dorian’s aid in securing crucial alliances within the Magisterium, Dorian’s hopes for what Tevinter might yet become outweigh any trepidation about leaving the Inquisition – and the Inquisitor – for the time it would take to remedy Tevinter’s most obvious ills. Still, Inquisitor Lavellan will not be turned aside. Despite the mage’s protests, he insists on accompanying Dorian, although it will be as his companion, not as the Inquisitor.</p><p>But the powers at play in the Imperium are greater and more convoluted than Dorian had anticipated: while he navigates secret alliances, unknown motives, and the effects of a series of brutal assassinations, Lavellan discovers that someone has been promising escaped slaves freedom… only to slaughter them for sinister purposes. Trying to uncover the truth of who is making a wild grab for power, and who is putting both Dorian and Lavellan in grave danger, is made harder as they struggle with how to be together in a world so bent on tearing them apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Our Devotion Upon Them

**Author's Note:**

> No matter their power, their triumph  
> The mage-lords of Tevinter were men  
> And doomed to die  
> Then a voice whispered within their hearts,  
> Shall you surrender your power  
> To time like the beasts upon the fields?  
> You are the Lords of the earth!  
> Go forth to claim the empty throne  
> Of Heaven and be gods.  
> Threnodies 8:13

**Chapter 1: Our Devotion Upon Them**

_And so we burned. We raised nations, we waged wars,_  
 _We dreamed up false gods, great demons_  
 _Who could cross the Veil into the waking world,_  
 _Turned our devotion upon them, and forgot you._  
 _-Threnodies 1:8_

*****

It began, as things did far more often than Dorian could ever have anticipated when he was on the outside of relationships and looking in rather than in the midst of one himself, with an argument.

“Pretty it up all you like, Dorian,” spat the Inquisitor, at once paled and flushed just across the sharp cheekbones that were so comely when the rest of him wasn’t contorted with hurt and whatever else was at work, this perplexing outrage that had so often resulted in this same damned argument since the letter had arrived. “But it’s clear that you just don’t want me there because you’re ashamed to be seen with me.”

“That is neither fair nor accurate, and you are entirely aware of that.” And, for the knife twist, “And you are _absolutely aware_ that emotional manipulation is the last purview of those whose argument cannot stand on its own merits.”

Dorian had spent the vast majority of his life involved in one sort of argument or another, academic or political, and that hadn’t changed since joining up with the Inquisition. Indeed, he liked to think his wits had sharpened. One could only stand the onslaught of insults against one’s person and one’s country, however motivated by jealousy the former or by ignorance and occasionally accuracy the latter, without sharpening one’s tongue into a most formidable weapon.

Talen froze, hands stilled in front of him, as though one of Lady Vivienne’s nastier spells had caught him off guard. The sun was setting in the Frostback Mountains, warm yellow light spilling in through the intricate stained glass windows. A diamond the colour of a ruby hovered over one of the Inquisitor’s eyes, dark hair shadowing the other half of his face.

Dorian felt a fleeting burst of pleasure, the brief thrill of actually _winning_ in a tȇte-à-tȇte with the world’s most influential – and most blindingly stubborn – elf, before it faded under the shape of his lover’s face. The particular cant of his mouth, the tension in his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes.

The red slice of light shifted as Talen turned his head, cut across cheekbone as might a blade. And when he spoke, his voice was rubbed raw, weary. Resigned, perhaps. “If either of us is guilty of manipulation, Dorian, we are both _absolutely aware_ that it isn’t me.”

The back of Dorian’s neck stiffened, a latent response to having his own words thrown back at him.

No, not thrown. Dropped at his feet, stripped of life and animating energy. Dead little syllables, which suddenly seemed –

Manipulative.

A small rhetorical flourish, so often effective. Paint a picture of what your opponent knows, and he is hardly going to profess ignorance.

Except that Talen was not Dorian’s _opponent_ , and to act as though he was –

He sighed, loudly, threw his hands into the air with an artful flutter. “If you insist on coming, I suppose I can hardly stop you, although you will likely be uncomfortable the entire time – _far_ too many liars, and not enough wilderness by half.”

Talen’s gaze, which had shifted to the blaze of light outside the windows, flicked back to Dorian for a moment. The lines of his face softened, beneath the pale marks of his tattoos. _Vallaslin_ , Dorian thought distantly.

Of course, if Dorian were still learning just about everything it was possible to know about the Dalish and their ways, the Inquisitor would be practically drowning in the currents and eddies of Tevinter, a land that was about as actively hostile to all that Talen Lavellan was and stood for as a place could be. Learning to swim in his homeland’s political waters was a dangerous endeavour, prone to lead to drowning even for those schooled in its ways, in the riptides and whirlpools lying in wait for a careless word to the wrong person. For the Inquisitor, it would be even more so.

But Dorian had avoided Tevinter for about as long as he could manage, until the sense of hypocrisy began to gnaw away at the marrow of his bones: to stand at the side of a man reshaping the world for the better and to do nothing beyond trail along behind him. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.

If Lavellan wanted to stand at Dorian’s elbow while he brought Tevinter into some semblance of decency and modernity, so be it. But it would be Dorian’s task, not the Inquisitor’s.

Talen stood, waiting silently, as the wheels turned and turned inside Dorian’s mind.

“But you absolutely cannot step in,” Dorian finished summarily. “I imagine it will be terribly difficult for you, so accustomed to saving nations and shaping the world, but if you’re to go with me, it will be as my _companion_ , not as my _commander_.”

Outside, the dark darkened into a glorious blaze of orange and red, like the juices of a perfectly ripened blood orange: visible, through translucent skin as thin as paper; tantalizing, beyond the panes of glass. The promise of sweetness bursting across one’s tongue.

The sunset appeared the hold the Inquisitor’s attentions as well. He watched it, quietly, latticed shadows intersecting with the lines of his _vallaslin_ , until his whole face was as an impossibly intricate puzzle. Finally, he said, with the wry little smile and glance that absolutely set Dorian’s heart aflutter in his chest, as if he were the heroine in one of Cassandra’s vapid books, “Well, I doubt I’ve ever _commanded_ you. I don’t see why I’d start now.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Dorian moved a little closer, through the swaths of deeply coloured light and the deepest of shadows. Talen’s body curved toward him, shoulders angling to meet Dorian’s approach, as thoughtless and intuitive as such a movement could be: the sun, passing in an arc through the sky; sweet-scented blooms, arcing on thin stems, to follow its passage.

That he could bend his lover to him like that –

Ah, there it was. The inevitable sappiness that followed these fights. That was something else Dorian hadn’t expected, when he had been on the outside of relationships looking in, breath fogging the glass that partitioned him neatly from things everyone else took for granted.

So long as they were bound to fight, they might as well be bound to make up.

Dorian reached out, fingers knotting in the front of Talen’s shirt, the thin fabric wrinkling in the curl of his palms. “You might give it a try, now and again. Start with something small. Harmless. I wouldn’t necessarily be adverse to being under you, given the right circumstances.”

A smile, then, the slow tug of one corner of Talen’s lips. One hand, marked and humming with the magical energy that lived within the lines of his palm, the tendons and bones of his wrist, brushed Dorian’s forearm, warm. “It’s your homeland. In this, I’ll be under _you_ , _ma vhenan_. A place I am content to be.” His own arms wrapping around Dorian’s neck, eyes large and bright under the deepening colours of the sunset and shadow.

“How fortunate for you, considering that I have all of the initiative.” And then Dorian kissed him, focusing all of the heat from their argument – all of his frustration at once _again_ emerging less than victorious – into the way he pushed Lavellan back against the wall, the snap of teeth behind soft lips, fingertips digging mercilessly against sharp hipbones and the dip of Talen’s lower back.

The details – the points of his concessions, the finer nuances of this contract between them, the delicate negotiation that Dorian _would_ see bend to his will – would keep to tomorrow. He had more worthwhile things to tend to tonight.

*****

So that wasn’t, exactly, where it had all began, and Dorian Pavus was nothing if not precise. He was, at his core, a scholar, an exemplar of the finer qualities Tevinter could engender in a person when it was not cultivating vice and a shocking penchant for blood magic: instead, curiosity, precision, and rigor. Hallmarks of what Tevinter could be if it stopped languishing in its own torrid pleasures and self-aggrandizement long enough to join the modern world.

And so it was that things began, in actuality, when he received a letter from a man Dorian had not called to mind in years.

Back in his glory days in Tevinter – although the extent to which they were glorious rather than largely terrifying and extremely alienating could be debated – Dorian had cultivated a few worthwhile relationships. Going so far as to call them friendships would be amiss; however, alliances could be made within even the most insipid social scenes. Allies were far easier to find than friends in a world redolent with intrigue, politicking, and the mad scramble for power.

Such was Cassius Niteo, a man only a just under a decade older than Dorian with a fine mind and finer ambitions that fell very much in line with Dorian’s hopes for Tevinter, although, by fortune of birth, he had been able better to stay within the political and social spheres to further his aims. Marrying the girl had never been Cassius’s problem, and he had married well, in a way that furthered his designs on political power. While Dorian found himself unable to stay, Cassius forcibly made a place for himself and had spent the intervening years ascending to the Imperial Senate and working his way through its tangled web of power and prestige.

“He’s a magister with designs on being Archon eventually, though that isn’t a terribly uncommon ambition. For now, he needs several vacant or soon-to-be vacant seats to be filled with allies. With the right magisters in place, he will have the numbers to introduce and pass new measures, as well as the political clout to hold Archon Radonis’s attention,” Dorian explained, leaning against the cool stone of Josephine’s fireplace. Cool, now that the fires had been banked until the spring air dampened the place with chill again which, knowing the damnable weather in this place, would be any day again. Summer, it would seem, was a shy mistress here among the mountains, more prone to hiding her face and demurring than announcing her arrival with appropriate fanfare and confidence.

“Besides,” he continued, bringing his thoughts back to Tevinter, which would now be warm always, except for a few hours in the deepest dark of night, “if anyone with a modicum of decency has a chance at becoming Archon eventually, it would be Cassius, though I’d imagine he won’t get his shot at that title for at least another decade. He’s played the games remarkably well up to this point, with a single-minded focus that would be remarkably dull if it had set itself to anything but navigating the Imperium’s treacherous political waters.”

Josephine’s quill had stopped its perpetual dance across parchment, her mouth twisting thoughtfully. “He dreams of becoming Archon, but first wants to gain a majority vote in the Magisterium. Unlikely ambitions indeed for a magister favouring reform. Are you quite certain his position is as stable as he has described?”

Dorian smiled, although something small and petty nibbled at the back of his mind. Of course he’d done his research. Even as a self-proclaimed pariah, Dorian had maintained _contacts_. Indeed, staying in touch with him seemed to have become almost scandalously fashionable since the Inquisition brought Corypheus to an undignified end. Some days, he thought he received as many letters as Josephine herself.

An exaggeration, perhaps, but one his ego insisted upon.

Josephine was, of course, only being thorough, which is precisely why he’d wanted to discuss this matter with her. And yet scouring the habits Tevinter had cultivated in him – suspicion of the motives of everyone around him and an adversarial and competitive mindset in even the most innocent of conversations  – remained a challenge, even after years among people Dorian could only describe as _friends_. With a forcible turn of his mind, he smoothed the small bitterness out, as he might press a wrinkle from cloth. “I have, of course, checked his standing with due diligence. To my surprise, I found him as well-positioned as he has claimed. Despite the general entropy of my homeland, Cassius has managed to make key allies within the Imperial Senate. A few more cleverly wrought alliances, and he will sway the more moderate among the Magisterium – enough to begin passing reforms, should the numbers hold.”

“But will his majority hold through the resistance he will no doubt encounter? To propose and vote on legislation takes time – not to mention drafting legislation, review committees, endless drafts and rewrites.” She made a soft sound with her tongue. “Dorian, even you must acknowledge that it is unlikely that things will line up quite so neatly of their own accord, even if he should put allies in the positions he has outlined. Heels will drag while others gather influence, and the Archon may yet be unwilling to implement the changes Cassius’s allies vote through.”

He huffed. Already, Dorian had turned the details over and over in his mind. Certainly, there were aspects which were… less than likely. Parts which would require a clever mind and steady hand to manipulate them.

But Dorian had been waiting, twiddling his thumbs, so to speak, whilst his country continued its languorous descent into vice. And now, the opportunity to truly create change for one with the right connections, with a mind for the game. Who had, were it not for circumstances beyond his control, he making the changes himself, rather than by proxy.

Dorian Pavus may not have been the man who could lead his country to better itself – indeed, he wasn’t even certain if that would be something he would desire were he different, were his country different – but he _was_ the man who could aid the magister to change everything. A moment of redemption, as it were, for the promised son of House Pavus. Prodigal son returned to have a hand in salvaging Tevinter. Poetic, almost.

Certainly, it wasn’t closing the Breach and rescuing the world from a mad man who would be god, but few could compete with the narrative grandeur of the Inquisitor.

The possibility of redemption for his homeland remained enough. They might not sing songs about Dorian Pavus, who helped place the right people in the right vacancies and thus helped guide the Imperium to more glorious days, but Dorian would know. And the man who might be the next Archon. Perhaps a condition of helping Cassius: if Niteo did, indeed, end up at the head of the Imperial Senate, he would have to have a song written about the remarkably handsome and clever man who’d helped him get there.

The situation was as simple as it could be when dealing with Imperial politics, and, in truth, it had nothing to do with a desire for Dorian’s glory: Cassius was a good man, as good as any might be within the Senate. Where he wasn’t well-liked, he was respected – a rare enough combination, and one that could lend him enough support to ratify change and perhaps, one day, to ascend. To truly _change_ Tevinter, in either case.

It was hard to pin down the fleeting emotion Dorian had felt in his chest, fluttering like a silk scarf in the wind, since the letter’s arrival, but it was very possible that it might be hope.

And as Cassius had said, so often it became second-nature for Dorian to think of the phrase whenever his mind turned to the man himself, a _better_ Tevinter meant a _stronger_ Tevinter; a Tevinter in which vast amounts of effort weren’t expended on back-stabbing and blood magic meant a Tevinter from which the qunari could well and truly be expelled. The Imperium’s vices kept it from the greatness it could, once again, achieve. _If we can’t stand on our own feet instead of the backs of slaves and smugglers, then all we believe about ourselves, all we proclaim Tevinter to be, is a lie – and that is something I cannot abide. That is surely the greatest failure of all, to think ourselves incapable of better. To think ourselves incapable of being_ stronger.

There were few men worth Dorian’s admiration, beyond himself. Cassius Niteo was one of them.

Though not nearly so handsome. Nor had he been key in saving the world from utter ruin. And his research, when he made the time to put it to paper, when he honed his thoughts instead of his allegiances, lacked rhetorical flair.

A fine man, but far from perfect. There could, after all, only be one Dorian.

Which was why Cassius had written.

Josephine set her quill down, hands folded in front her. The light from her lone candle caught on the gold bangles around her wrists, the bands glinting. “And the other magisters: I am sure there are others yet that would oppose Magister Niteo. Surely many within the Imperial Senate do not wish to change the status quo, and those who may wish for things to remain as they are would be… unscrupulous in their pursuit of the vote.”

Ah, yes, Blood magic. Impossible to have a conversation about the Imperium without bringing that particular skeleton forth.

Dorian cast a glance to the window, which peered out on the mountains, perpetually capped in snow. Even now, in what we purportedly summer. “The Inquisition has weakened their protests considerably. If Tevinter is to change, it must be now.” Cassius’s own words, written in the precise script Dorian remembered from the days when they might run into each other at the university’s library, Cassius asking for a second opinion on an obscure piece of theorizing. “And it is precisely because of these other factions that we must act: the Archon’s support of the Inquisition has weakened his position considerably among those _less favourable_ factions, and, unless the balance of power is adjusted appropriately, it won’t be long before someone seizes upon his weakness and removes him from his position.”

“Removes him?”

“Please recall, my dearest Lady Montilyet,” and he shot her his most charming smile, “that we speak of the Imperium, in which the assassination of the weakened, whether physically or politically, is as common as grand fȇtes, and considered to be worthy of fewer words still. We make Orlais look positively _restrained_.”

Josephine leaned forward, a stray curl brushing her cheek, the look on her face not unlike the one she wore when unearthing the truth behind political gestures. The line of her brow the same as when she found her way to the truth of the matter, and found it to be advantageous – capable of being used. Oh dear. “If this opportunity is truly so singular, Dorian,” she began, “why hesitate? I am always more than happy to offer my thoughts on any matter, but it sounds as if you’ve already decided to go. And you know far more of Imperial politics than I do.”

She asked, but surely had already come to an answer. Dorian pushed himself from the fireplace and settled down into a chair, settling his limbs into a loose pose meant to seem relaxed, when it was anything but. “Ah, well. There remains the question of how exactly I go about telling the Inquisitor. On that, dearest Josephine, I could certainly use your advice. A master diplomat’s guidance.”

The candle flickered again. Josephine sat back, pressing herself against the plush back of her chair. The light streaming in through the window was chilly, the smell of melting snow still in the air. As if spring had decided, yet again, to circle back, to linger in the courtyard and in Skyhold’s stones.

He wouldn’t mind getting away from the damp and cold. Not at all.

Dorian glanced back at the Antivan diplomat, whose eyes were shadowed, her mouth twisted at one edge into a thoughtful pucker. Thoughtful, or disappointed. It was so difficult to ferret out the nuances in her tells.

“It will be difficult to dissuade him from accompanying you. This may be beyond my skill, Dorian. He is,” a beat of silence, as she searched for precisely the right word that would ring true but not, Dorian knew, offend the Inquisitor’s lover, “ _devoted_ to you. To your safety and well-being.”

Yes, yes, very _devoted_. Talen had been devoted since Dorian had joined the Inquisition, always slipping from shadow to appear at his side during battle when Dorian found himself in rather sticky situations, or else using his political connections to win back Dorian’s belongings, or adding books to the Skyhold library so that Dorian would feel more contented. Hunting down the perpetually mumbling Venatori as much for Dorian’s benefit as the Inquisition’s.

Talen would move nations to keep Dorian happy. Was it so wrong that Dorian wanted to move a nation – _his_ nation – on his own?

Petty, perhaps, befitting an ego as devoted to its own grandeur as Talen was devoted to Dorian. But there it was: this was something Dorian wanted to do on his own, but he couldn’t just say that. Not when the Inquisitor had already shown himself to be remarkably sensitive where that whole tangle, of protection and devotion and something not unlike _supervision_ , was concerned.

Hence Josephine. Dorian stood: it was, he thought, wholly time to plant the seed and allow it to grow in her mind. If anyone could bring Lavellan around, it would be Lady Montilyet, if only she would step up to the task. “He is also Inquisitor. Tevinter would be not be safe for him, nor would his absence from the helm of the Inquisition be good for the south. He will want to come; he’s already insisted once, well before this opportunity presented itself – before we defeated Corypheus. But he _cannot_. I ask you to think on it, Josephine. Your assistance would be most welcome.” He inclined his head, ignoring the line between her eyebrows, the concerned shape of her mouth. “Now, if you would excuse me, I’ve arrangements to make. We’ll speak again.”

“Very well, Dorian,” she said, as he turned and slipped away, back to the library, where the rows upon rows of books seemed to keep the chill of the stones from saturating the air.

Now if she would but allow her mind, so elegantly suited to picking apart puzzles and piecing them together in better, more suitable ways, to turn on his quandary, a solution would present itself and Dorian would be free to leave for Tevinter. To step back into the web of allegiances and politics and nefarious schemes with clear vision and a clearer heart. With fingers ready to pull strings and untangle knots and to shape the future of his country.

He put pen to paper, and told Cassius to expect him forthwith.

*****

Of course, Josephine’s loyalties were, first and foremost, to the Inquisitor, and, although she took no issue with using misdirection to her advantage in diplomatic situations, she apparently drew the line at doing so with Talen. And so it was that Dorian’s lover found him in the library, and began what would be the first in a long and tired series of arguments.

Dorian, in response, launched a clever series of ripostes. If Lady Montilyet would not go to battle for him, he would have to do it himself and, having been raised in the hallowed courts and ballrooms and libraries of Tevinter, Dorian excelled at undermining intentions, revealing flaws in thought processes, and cleverly cutting emotion from logic. He was exceptional, well and truly, at countering each and every rhetorical step, until nothing remained but the resignation that Dorian was _correct_.

He began one morning, as the Inquisitor sipped a cup of especially strong tea over a report from his new spymaster, Melusine, who, Dorian thought, was far too prone to making awful puns for a woman who had ears in every important house in the south and a few, he’d gathered, in the north as well. “You don’t even speak the language and there is hardly time to learn. Ours is a wretchedly complex tongue – too many classes of verbs and nouns to even begin to list. You won’t be able to communicate.”

Talen didn’t even glance up from the report. “I don’t need to. I’m not going as a representative of the Inquisition. I’m only going so that you have someone in your corner. Besides, I’m a quick study.” He paused his perusal of the report, looked directly, pointedly, at Dorian, and switched to a flawed and accented Tevene that was nonetheless infuriatingly intelligible, “ _Try more hard next time_.”

Later, Dorian launched a verbal attack by the stables, this time a high, glancing blow, aimed, at the Inquisitor’s ego. “Surely I don’t need to remind you that you’re the Inquisitor. Everyone will _know_ it’s you.”

Talen continued to pull on the buckles and straps of the hart’s saddle. “Right – the one elf among the nameless many who everyone in Tevinter will recognize, even though the only Vint I’ve met who I didn’t end up killing is _you_.” He swung up into the saddle, the pale beast standing, patiently, its short tail flicking. “No one will recognize me, Dorian. They have no means to, unless you’ve been sending all of your former contacts lovingly rendered portraits. Besides, the hand doesn’t glow anymore – and if there are rifts around that happen to need closing, everyone will be too distracted by the demons to notice that a curiously-glowing elf is saving their lives. And I’ll be sure to pack gloves, just in case.”

And, like that, having so successfully parried, the Inquisitor disappeared in a flurry of hoofbeats, off to find whatever obscure herb he needed from the mountains this time.

But Dorian Pavus was not one to give up. Surely, there was a weakness to be found in Talen’s defence. A dropped elbow, an opening near the flank. He tried, once more, over brandy and a game of chess. Talen always grew agitated when he was losing, and he always lost when he played Dorian.

It was the perfect moment to thrust his foil at the Inquisitor’s sense of duty.

“You know,” Dorian said, picking up a knight and moving it dangerously close to Talen’s queen, “The Inquisition needs you. It cannot function without you at its helm, providing guidance, insight, leadership. Taking time for the sake of a country that has now withdrawn, it would seem, from its alliance with us, and for the sake of your _magister lover_ , verges, I’m afraid, on irresponsible. The cost in reputation alone, never mind the more tangible difficulties of running the Inquisition without the Inquisitor, for however short a time…”

That caught his attention. Dark eyes flicked up from the game, almost black in the dim firelight – Dorian had insisted on a fire, even though the Inquisitor swore it was summer and therefore entirely unnecessary. _I am cold; therefore, the fire is necessary_ , Dorian had said plainly, _If you wish me in your quarters, make them habitable first_.

Talen’s fingers were caught on his rook, the piece dangling mid-air. He moved it forward, set it down hard enough to make a sharp sound. “If you think Cassandra, Josephine, Cullen, and Melusine not up to the task of handling matters for a few months during peacetime, I suggest you take it up with them, Dorian. It would mark you a far braver man than I. Particularly Cassandra – in fact, I’d like to witness that particular conversation, if you don’t mind.” He took a sip of the brandy, and then gestured to the board. “Watch your bishop. It looks like he’s feeling a little hemmed in.”

In the end, Dorian ran out of ways to try and cleverly disarm his opponent, and so found himself locked in the full-tilt emotional brawl that left Talen the clear victor, standing in his quarters and bathed in the light of sunset and the shadows of latticework. The heart of the matter began with the letter, then, but it was that final argument that saw things resolved, in however unsatisfactory a matter.

Dorian should have known better than to try to find weakness in a man who’d stopped a blighted would-be god. But, then, he was prone to thinking himself better than the worst of his countrymen, so could, Dorian thought generously of himself, be forgiven.

So it was that the next morning, resigned to having Talen travel with him to Tevinter, Dorian parsed out the intricacies of their arrangement. He woke, the early, grey light of dawn spilling in through the high windows, and, with a flick of his wrist, set the fire to banishing the chill from the room. When Talen finally awoke, stretching slowly and languorously under the blankets of his bed – _their_ bed – Dorian had marshalled his thoughts into neat little parade lines. Good little soldiers, orderly, clear, precise. Cullen would be proud.

Dorian had even made Talen tea, presenting it to the Inquisitor as a peace offering the moment he finally crawled out of bed.

And, if he was honest, it also served as a way to soften Talen to the conversation that would follow.

Talen folded one of his legs underneath him, on the chaise by the fire, as the other unfolded to brush his foot against Dorian’s thigh, long fingers wrapped around the delicate cup.

One of Dorian’s thought-soldiers tripped, caught off-guard by the softness in Talen’s gaze, the gentle smile that curved his lips. He stood, moved to stand by the fire.

“If you insist on coming, amatus,” Dorian began, insisting that his thoughts stay on point and ordered, cool and collected, “it cannot be as the Inquisitor. The Imperial Senate is hardly ready for your particular brand of politics, and I would rather we not accidentally bring down the wrath of all of southern Thedas because of Tevinter’s baser impulses, which include killing anyone who causes too much trouble in absolutely wretched and untoward ways.”

The Inquisitor sighed, setting the cup down on the end table. “Dorian,” he said, and his voice was as soft as his eyes, but the edges were worn, not unlike the pags on a book that had been handled too roughly and by too many hands.

Dorian felt a hot spike of guilt, briefly, then brought himself back into line again. It was Talen who’d insisted on coming, who refused to accept that some things were Dorian’s responsibility to right. That some things didn’t need the Inquisitor to involve himself.

Even as Dorian braced for battle, Talen continued. “It has never been my intent to come with you _as Inquisitor_. I thought I’d made that apparent, but it would seem not. Let me, then, be perfectly clear.” He straightened, shoulders making a level line – fell, instinctively, into the kind of posture he adopted when he was leading. When he _was_ Inquisitor.

However skeptical, Dorian remained silent. He would hear his lover out.

“I’ve arranged,” Talen said, “to take a leave. Josie has spun some pretty tale about a series of visits to obscure Dalish clans that are as like not to exist as they are impossible to track for shemlens, and there is no one in Tevinter to recognize me as Inquisitor. I’ll be a nameless elf – I hardly look the part of grand leader of a political force spanning cities and states; sometimes, I even doubt it myself.” He smiled, then, self-deprecating in the way that he so often was.

“Is this where I insist that you are inherently a leader and positively _scream_ Inquisitor, whether in Minrathous or Val Royeaux, whether chasing halla across plains or tracking possessed rams and lost druffalo in the Hinterlands?”

“No,” Talen said, and he didn’t even have the generosity to laugh, to ease Dorian’s discomfort, “Because that would be so obvious a lie that we’d both be embarrassed by it. I am, after all, just the _savage Dalish_ who barged into the party at the Winter Palace. Hardly a person worth noticing, unless I’m in the midst of stopping assassinations or finding lost rings.”

“Hardly,” said Dorian drily.

But onwards the Inquisitor continued, a man for whom building momentum was as natural as breathing. “You once offered me your connections, when I trained with Heir, and that is an offer I intend to take you up on. I would work as a lowly assassin and be glad to just be by your side. That is all, Dorian. I’ve made the arrangements. You needn’t worry about any interference.”

Despite himself, Dorian found that he was – taken aback. His arms crossed and he could _feel_ his eyebrows inch their way up his forehead, each a line of pointed skepticism. “You intend to leave a trail of bodies in your wake, from the top to the bottom of Minrathous? That’s your idea of subtlety?”

Talen laughed, then, a brief, bright sound. The morning light spilled into the room, sunlight heating the back of Dorian’s neck. “Not as many as usual,” said the Inquisitor. “And for reasons wholly unpolitical – or, at least, involving politics that aren’t my own or the Inquisition’s. _An assassin’s task is not to ask why; it is simply to be the blade in the dark_.” His lips twitched into a small smile, after the eerily accurate rendition of the sour master assassin, who enjoyed lurking in shadows far too much and without the appropriate sense of irony. “She was poetic about the whole thing, wasn’t she? But then we Dalish insist on having a goddess of the hunt and have a ridiculous number of verses about the blessing of death, and blood and arrows and the like, so I suppose killing and poetry may go hand in hand.”

“Death and melodrama, yes,” said Dorian. "Rather fast friends."

But, still, something rested, unsettled and tight, inside his belly, something he couldn’t quite place. The Inquisitor, made common assassin. A companion who came but to kill, make a little coin, and stay happily in the shadows while Dorian moved in the spotlight.

It was, Dorian thought, rather unlike the leader of a grand political organization bent on changing the world into a better place. The point needed pursuit, so Dorian gave it voice, as the back of his neck prickled under the ministrations of the rising sun. “Humour me, amatus: you join me not as Inquisitor. You cannot involve yourself, however noble your intentions – and I am well aware they would be, could be, nothing but noble.” He shifted his weight, continued to press his point. “Tevinter is my homeland, Talen; fixing it lies upon my shoulders. Well, not wholly. I imagine I’ll have a little help here or there, but it will come from my fellow citizens – you know, wretchedly evil magisters bent suddenly to nobler purpose. We are understood?”

Talen raised his hands, as though Dorian held a blade to his throat, but a smile curved his lips into a lovely shape. A particularly enchanting shape, one Dorian had never been able to resist staring at. “I understand! I come only as your lover.”

Ah, and there it was. At the word, his stomach twisted, but, ever the student of Tevinter’s courts, Dorian only smiled. It may have been an expression as bitter as spindleweed root, but it was better than showing his true hand: the little black pearl self-loathing souring his heart. “I’m afraid not. You come as my friend, nothing more.”

The softness in Talen’s face disappeared in an instant, leaving an awful blankness – vacuous, confused.

He rushed to continue. Better to pretty it up with words and charm than to let his lover dwell too long on the thought that Dorian was setting him aside, even for a short span. Not when Talen had shown himself so utterly vulnerable on this particular front. This was the opening Dorian could have sought, when he tried to dissuade the Inquisitor from the journey to Tevinter, but it was also the opening Dorian could never bring himself to exploit – no, if he had to hurt the Inquisitor in this way, it would be because the pain was inevitable, not because he sought to inflict it. Even Dorian had limits to what he would do for the sake of victory.

“My task,” he explained, in as an affable tone as he could muster, “is to build alliances. I must be careful not to rock the boat, as it were, more than necessary: too much, and all is lost to sea. It is enough that I return after working with the Inquisition and against the Venatori – seemingly against my own countrymen. I am enough of a pariah as it is, and while that is dashing and roguish to an extent, there are limits to what can be tolerated before I become more of a hindrance than an asset.”

An ugly truth, but there it was, dripping with as many jewels and precious metals as Dorian’s rhetorical flourishes could manage.

His lover just sat there, for too many moments, until the space between them grew tense, unsteady. Finally, Talen spoke, his voice brittle and small. Too small for the leader of the Inquisition. “Dorian – everyone _knows_. If my sister heard from some minor noblewoman in Wycome –”

“There is a difference, my dear, between _knowing_ and _seeing_.” Dorian waved a hand in the air, a graceful gesture meant to make the whole thing seem minute, unworthy of great emotional upheaval. As it was: a little subtlety, a few select changes of word and address, for but a short span of time. Certainly nothing worth being upset over.

But Dorian recollected the feeling of being under the great weight of a lie. However temporary, however apparently superficial. It was that burden that had driven him to leave Tevinter, but it was a burden his lover would have to accept, if he insisted on coming with Dorian.

Perhaps it was a line of thinking worth pursuit, now that the hurt had been inflicted. He continued. “I know it’s difficult, Talen, but it won’t become easier when we’re in the Imperium. Living the lie of it, every moment, mired in the duplicity, the hypocrisy of the place, is horrid. If you’ll allow me a moment of metaphor, and I _know_ you will,” a brief flicker of a charming smile, met with nothing but that terrible blankness in return, like trying to charm a rift, “it is not unlike wandering around the damned Hissing Wastes, the perpetual grit of it – like stones always in your boots. Empty one out, and another has already taken its place. Choking on lies is much the same as choking on sand, by my estimate. Except, of course, it is far preferable to choke on exquisite wine and be smothered in finery than in endless dirt.”

Talen leaned forward, pinching the bridge of his nose.

And, because Dorian could not resist, he said, slowly, as carefully as if he were casting an extraordinarily tricky enchantment with as much likelihood of blowing up everything around him as succeeding, “You needn’t come, amatus. I cannot blame you for wanting to avoid –”

The Inquisitor sighed, long and loud, and Dorian stopped speaking. Better to quit when he was ahead, especially when his lover made _that_ sound. After several beats, Talen looked up, face tight, as if in pain and more than a little cross. Then, “Fine. _Fine_. I will go as your friend – your _companion_. So long as it’s not as your slave.”

A blow, hard and sharp to the sternum. “That’s hardly fair,” Dorian started, stiffening. “I would never –”

“I _know_ , Dorian. Just give me a moment to be bitter about the plight of my people, and then I’ll be lovely again. Wait – oh, there it goes. See? Back to the picture of charm and graciousness you so adore.” And he flashed a bright smile, though it was edged in steel. A dangerous look, one that made Dorian feel as though he’d made a substantial error, one he couldn’t now undo, though there’d been no other way through that conversation.

“To little pieces,” Dorian finished, the words dry and ashy in his mouth. Still, he was happy to turn the conversation away from the lies he would be telling, from the uglier truths of his country. Underneath it all, something ugly, acrid and bilious, simmered in Dorian's blood. A disquiet almost poisonous. Something he chose, willfully, to ignore.

Talen followed suit, leaning back into the couch, picking up his cup of tea – now, no doubt, cool. Still, he sipped it, cast his gaze to the day outside, which was bright and approaching something resembling warmth. “I suppose,” he said, somewhat stiffly, “it will be nice to get away from it all, if only for a little while. Like a vacation.”

Dorian ignored the tight knots in his stomach, the prickling underneath his skin. Instead, he moved to a chair a little further from the fire, which was now dying and was, besides, largely unnecessary with the sunlight streaming in through the windows and effectively heating the room. “A vacation that involves being paid to murder people. Hm, quite. I can see the appeal. Anyone could, really. Why wander the countryside killing random strangers when you could wander around a sumptuous city killing strangers and being paid for it – in real currency, even! Not just the bits of coin and lint turned out of pockets!”

Talen shifted, out of a square of sunlight inching its way toward the back wall. “If I’m going to kill people, it might as well be for coin,” he offered wryly. “And it’s far less of an ordeal to kill for petty squabbles than as part of a battle to save the world. The pressure to perform is much more manageable.”

Dorian laughed, then, and if Talen heard the near-desperate sound in it – the desire to clear out the ugliness of their conversation almost frantic – he made no indication. “If anyone else said it, I’d say that was rather _chilling_. As it happens, I can almost understand.”

“Come now, be honest. You like having a lover this deadly and dangerous – oh, right. My apologies. _Friend_.” But the steel was out of the way Talen said it. The shadows in his eyes were lessened, more _storm clouds on a summer day_ than _hurricanes posed to destroy cities_.

And Dorian, of course, could play with the best of them. “If you’re going to be like this the whole way,” he said, “I’ll leave you in the middle of the night on the way to Minrathous.”

Another sip of cold tea, Talen stretching. “You won’t – you can’t set up a tent to save your life. Or to save your clothes. And I’m sure you’ll be packing all your finest for your endless parties. Did you really want to risk the silk because you can’t stomach a little resentment?”

Dorian sighed, dramatically; one corner of Talen’s mouth tugged up as a result. “Well, if it’s for the silk.”

“And I’ll only be like this half of the way,” his lover promised earnestly. “And every six days thereafter. If we keep it to a schedule, we should manage.”

“I expect we’ll do just that.”

And that, in a roundabout way, was how Dorian found himself, a week later, on the way to his homeland with the leader of arguably the most powerful political organization in all of Thedas at his side. A leader who, for the sake of a Tevinter mage, had stepped down from his role leading the Inquisition to instead kill strangers in a stranger land and watch from the sidelines as Dorian attended an endless string of grand parties and meetings, replete with wine, scheming, and shrewd politicking.

Dorian missed winning arguments but, he thought, as Talen unsaddled their mounts and began setting up their tent with as much ease and deftness as one would expect from a man who spent most of his life wandering through the countryside and living in places that did not have amenities such as indoor plumbing, libraries, or permanent roofs, he could not be _entirely_ upset that he’d lost this particular one.

Yet, at least. Dorian’s final judgment on the matter would have to wait until they arrived in Tevinter, and determined whether Dorian remembered the steps of the eternal dance of power well enough and whether Talen could learn them swiftly enough to keep him – to keep _both_ of them – from danger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be a long one with plenty of action and intrigue. I've got the whole thing plotted out and hope(!) I've made it appropriately twisty and turny while still remaining focused on Dorian and Lavellan -- they're very much the heart of this piece. The fun actiony bits, with murder and magic and fights and scheming and stuff, are all, I hope, bonuses. 
> 
> Encouragement and comments are _wonderful_ and mean the world to me, so please comment away! Also, if you've noticed that I've completely messed up some piece of Tevinter culture/politics/life/etc., I am more than happy to be corrected. Writing fanfic is a pretty new venture for me, so ensuring I'm relatively canon-compliant can be a challenge. I'm more accustomed to making my own stuff up on the fly, less to working with a pre-built universe.
> 
> You can also find me on tumblr at [mstigergun](http://mstigergun.tumblr.com), where I ~~lose my mind in a squealing, blushing fit over~~ welcome new followers.


	2. The Life They Could Not Feel

**Chapter 2: The Life They Could Not Feel**

 

 

> _The first of the Maker’s children watched across the Veil,_  
>  _And grew jealous of the life_  
>  _They could not feel, could not touch._  
>  _In the blackest envy were the demons born._  
>  (Erudition 2:1)

*****

Of course, travelling to Tevinter was all well and good until they actually _reached_ Tevinter, at which point all of it – the good intentions, the thought that all might work out well despite Dorian’s initial misgivings, the affable pleasure of travelling together, the near _romance_ of wending their way through countryside and villages as a pair of intrepid adventurers without Dorian being responsible for any of the heavy lifting beyond setting the occasional bandit on fire – went promptly and utterly to shit.

After crossing through Nevarra, Talen suggesting rather slyly that they track down some Pentaghasts to see if they all walked around with cheekbones sharp enough to cut down dragons, they travelled by the Imperial Highway, tidy bricks laid in predictable patterns. Proof that the Imperium could be orderly and productive, when it wasn’t growing drunk and fat on its ancient glories and contemporary vanities.

He was finally going home, after eight long years – at last, back to Tevinter, which would be warm and _civilized_ , when it wasn’t too wrapped up in being terribly and wretchedly _uncivilized_. But at least there would be wine, and white buildings, and a summer that felt like summer ought to.

“I’ve just realized,” Talen began one day, flashing between sunshine and shadow – bright, then dark, then blindingly light again, the neat white arches above them cutting the sky into blue lines, “I said no one would recognize me, but your father’s a magister. He would know me if he saw me, I imagine; no one forgets the face of the man they suppose to be defiling their son. Although,” he shot a crooked grin over his shoulder at Dorian, “the defiling came later. And it was mostly the other way around.”

“Ah, yes, the angelic Herald of Andraste, corrupted by the evil Tevinter mage: it’s the stuff Varric’s novels are made of.” Dorian’s horse ambled happily along, its neck a relaxed line before him. “It’s something I’d already considered, amatus, being as clever and particular as I am. My father will be at the country estate. The Senate breaks from session during summer; anyone not young and beautiful and jockeying for power and position at the endless stream of summer parties leaves Minrathous for slightly cooler climes. In essence, those for whom the days of playing the game or doing anything interesting or meaningful are well and truly over. Besides –” and here Dorian raised an eyebrow, “you won’t even be attending the fêtes at which you might see him, were he in the city. I imagine killing your way through the Imperium will take up most of your evenings.”

Talen twisted forward again in his saddle. “As usual, you’ve thought of everything,” he said, the sound of his voice muffled by the horse’s hooves over stone, the distant trilling of song birds.

“Quite,” Dorian said, pushing his horse forward so that he could ride by the Inquisitor’s side. “Which does bring us around to another point: you’ll need a convincing story, a name not your own. We’ve but another day’s travel to the Imperium, and we will have needed to determine all of the pertinent details by then.”

Certainly, elves were common in Tevinter and there was no one who would assume that the Inquisitor would be travelling to Tevinter at the side of a mage without any fanfare or pomp at all. People didn’t _do_ such things in in the Imperium, such things including humility, pragmatism, and an unending fount of modesty. Still, an elf with the same name as the Inquisitor and a strange tattoo on one hand – albeit, not glowing any more, but still rather peculiar, being on the palm and a seemingly disjointed series of lines from which Dorian could not, in any case, discern a pattern. Such a man, travelling at the side of a Tevinter mage rumoured to be the Inquisitor’s lover, and who had, in any case, certainly worked alongside him in the years since leaving his homeland?

Well. No one could accuse magisters of being _stupid_ , and there were certainly limits to their willful ignorance.

“You do realize that my Keeper sent me to the Conclave as a spy.” Talen shot Dorian a rather prickly look. “While, certainly, I’m no Ben-Hassarath agent, she chose me because I am rather good at slipping into shadow and making myself unremarkable – which includes creating believable but uninteresting backstories and identities. A holdover, from my time in Ansburg.”

Dorian laughed, a bright sound that chimed in the air alongside the birdsong, and rolled his eyes. The Inquisitor was many things – he could even, when pressed, be subtle – but _deceptive_ was certainly not among his traits. “Please,” he said, “I’ve seen you play Wicked Grace. You may have been the least likely in your clan to run screaming the first time a _shem_ spoke to you, but you’re hardly a master spy, Lavellan.”

“Lavellan?” His lover’s forehead wrinkled in feigned confusion. “No, you’ve confused us again – I know, I know,” a hand wave, the reins gathered in the other, “all elves look the same, but _I’m_ the better looking between us. Remember, I’m _Falon_ , formerly of the Sabrae Clan.”

The workings of the man’s mind beggared belief. “Really? _Falon_? As in, rhymes with Talen? You’re right – you are a genuine master of subterfuge. How ever did I not notice before? Although that may be _part_ of the subterfuge. What a fool am I!”

Talen cleared his throat, and fixed Dorian with a sharp little glare, but the teeth were out of it, like an aged lion all gone to gums and grumbling. “A dual purpose, and one that’s rather clever. Falon’din is our god of death and the underworld – not that I should have expected you to take notice of that.” Another rather pointed look, and then, “But it also serves the purpose of rectifying your inevitable mistakes because, believe it or not, Dorian Pavus, you _are_ mortal and are thus less than perfect. When you make the inevitable mistake of calling me by name, _ma vhenan_ , you’ll appear to have merely misspoken,” he said. “Now be quiet and listen to the rest. I’m sharing my life story with you.”

“Oh joy of joys,” huffed Dorian. “First you lie and suggest that I am less than perfect – a _vulgar_ falsehood – and you subsequently insist on monologuing, when that is utterly and thoroughly my territory.” That won him another glare through narrowed eyes, but Talen pushed on nonetheless.

“When my Clan was killed,” he said, the lines of his posture softening as he adopted a more relaxed stance, the loose sprawl of this different character, “by a person I have certainly never met, might I add, I was out hunting and thus survived what ought to, by rights, have been my demise. Bereft, I headed to Kirkwall just in time for that mess – hard not to learn how to kill people as easily as animals during the chaos. When the smoke cleared, I wandered through the Free Marches, honing the art of killing for coin as a way to keep myself warm and fed. I heard that the Herald of Andraste was one of the people, so I headed south to join his cause. Figured the pay would be decent, even if the mission was – well, a bit _grand_.”

“Oh really?” said Dorian drily. Not-Talen, who was a very poor attempt indeed at not seeming like the original, blinked at him placidly. “And what _was_ the Inquisitor like?”

“The Inquisitor,” began the Inquisitor, straightening into a sharper posture like the blade of a scimitar, all curve and edge, “is a self-righteous, nosy bastard. It’s always _conscience this, conscience that_ , and half the time he’s more concerned with keeping everyone happy than what really matters – putting things back to normal. He kept sending me on the most inane missions – go rescue some scholars trapped in a library, find this stupid farmer’s ram, track down some fiddly instruments so that we can find a dragon because finding dragons is generally a good thing to do – when, really, I should have been sneaking into houses and parties and killing the people who caused the Inquisition trouble. I’m good at sneaking. I could have killed a bunch of people, if I wasn’t always chasing after things that didn’t help accomplish anything except making some simpleton happy.”

“So you left,” Dorian said. “Just like that.”

“Well,” Talen sighed, tilting his head, “I didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. I made the mistake of drinking a little too much with this qunari and I _may_ have gotten a little handsy and given him the wrong idea. Well, not the wrong idea, not at all, but the idea that hadn’t been _thought through_ all the way. The point is – have you seen the size of them? He’d have crushed me and, sure, it might have been fun, but I’d always rather be alive and wanting more than thoroughly sated and dead. I couldn’t risk it, so I left – and as it happened, this mage I’d seen lurking around the library, with his head always buried in some dusty tome, was headed to Minrathous. So here I am, looking for more people to kill.”

“No,” said Dorian, firmly. “It won’t do.”

“Really? Because of Bull?”

“ _No_ , not because of _The Iron Bull_ , Talen.” Honestly, sometimes Dorian felt as though he ought to reach over and give the Inquisitor a shake. Spy material indeed. It was fortunate that he had Dorian to guide him to something resembling sense. He would spell it out, then. “Because I would have nothing to do with this character you’ve concocted. I would have even less reason to bring him with me to Tevinter. This Falon character is remarkably uncouth and I rather suspect that, had he truly joined up with the Inquisition, the Inquisitor would have long since told himself to vacate the premises, lest his runaway mouth create a diplomatic incident.”

“What, because Sera’s mouth couldn’t have done the same?” A sharp grin. “Right, but point taken – not really _friend_ material, is he? Not the sort you’d bring with you to the homeland.”

“Rectifiable, though. We may yet be able to correct his character and transform him from ugly duckling to – I dare not say a swan, but perhaps a slightly less ugly duckling. Let us make a few edits, then, to your sordid little story.” Dorian cleared his throat. “Your clan is killed, you learn the art of death, join the Inquisition, _blah blah blah_ , and you’ve been feeling a little underused since peacetime and have always wanted to see the world. As it so happened, your charming, handsome, and incredibly cosmopolitan friend needed to head north, so you thought you might accompany him, experience the _glory_ that is Imperium, make a little coin, and head back to the south thoroughly refreshed and with a coinpurse all the heavier for your death-dealing. Besides,” and here he raised his eyebrows knowingly, “the Inquisitor fusses ever so much over his Tevinter mage and felt more secure having someone travel by his side, to fend of bandits and set up tents and the like.”

Talen huffed out a little laugh. He reached up and brushed dark hair behind one of his ears. “I suppose it is just slightly more likely than running to Tevinter because of Bull.”

“It had _best_ be,” Dorian said, perhaps a little more sharply than was rightly justified.

“You’re not jealous, Dorian?” The crooked smile returned.

“Why would I be? If anyone ought to be jealous, amatus, it is you: have you _seen_ the way these clothes are positively _clinging_ to my skin? Scandalous, the forthrightness of finery.” A snare, cleverly designed, and entirely successful.

Talen’s eyes darkened thoughtfully, storm clouds humming with electricity. “Oh,” he said, voice suddenly low and raspy, “I’ve seen.”

“And,” Dorian continued, skin warmed, for a moment, by the sun which grew brighter and hotter with each day’s travel toward the north, and possibly also by something else, “have you also made note that we have but one more night on the road before we’re in Tevinter, and then but a short time before we’ll have arrived at the cradle of civilization itself – Minrathous?”

“Yes,” Talen said. “I’ve also made note of the precise order in which you do up those buckles and straps and have committed to memory the whole procedure in reverse.”

“Hm. How fortuitous,” said Dorian. “They are rather difficult for to manage on one’s own.”

*****

And so it was that the time they spend travelling was almost pleasant. Plenty of nights that Dorian could call cold enough to insist on _retiring early_ , his perpetually hot-blooded lover a half-step behind. But, as they made their way through white arches toward Tevinter, the landscape smoothing out as they approached the lowlands to the north of Nevarra, Dorian felt that thing he had been trying so desperately to not feel. A low, dark sickness; the heavy press of foreboding on his chest.

Things one ought _not_ to feel when travelling home for the first time in years, one’s attentive and devoted lover by one’s side.

But there it remained, undeniable, however much Dorian tried to deny it: that very particular feeling, slick and dark as tar, roiling beneath his skin. With that sensation eating away at him, sucking all the colour out of the blue sky and all the pleasure out of the day’s ride, which was, by all accounts, easy and relaxed, Dorian finally approached the border of the Imperium.

Because they travelled by the highway, there were guardsmen stationed at the gatehouse, the blessed point of entry into a country Dorian had not seen in years. Grand gates, wrought of fine, dark metals and set into columns of white stone as broad around as the ancient trees in the Emerald Graves, soared toward the sky. Above them, a looming statue of a dragon, teeth jagged, marble wings unfurling into magnificent sheets.

Of course, Dorian had seen more than one dragon up close. This one seemed small and insignificant indeed, though the country she represented felt as threatening as the open maw, the swelled belly, the unrelenting beat of the true beast’s wings.

One of the guards, dressed entirely in black and wearing a helmet that reminded Dorian uneasily of the Venatori, stepped forward to stand before the gate, hand on his sword, as their horses approached.

“Soporati,” Dorian said, when he drew to within earshot, ensuring he elongated his vowels and enunciated his consonants in a way that spelled out, as clearly as if he waved the Pavus amulet about, the excellence of his breeding and the standing of his name. “We’re through to Minrathous.”

“Very well,” deferred the guard, inclining his head. The obsidian crescent atop his helmet caught the bright light of the sun, glinting like oil. “I’ve but to ask your name for our records, and make note of the slave.”

Behind him, Talen’s horse pawed the stone.

“I needn’t permission to enter the Imperium,” Dorian said, using his advantage from the back of the horse to stare down at the guard as might a falcon might stare down at a mouse. _See_ , he thought, _my gaze has talons; watch that you aren’t caught_.

The guard, however, was unfazed, simply blinking up at him through the narrow slit in his helmet. His hand stayed on the pommel of his sword. “You have been away for quite some time, I take it. Things have changed, Altus: the Archon requires a record of all those who enter by the Imperial Highway, and documents for slaves proving ownership.”

The back of Dorian’s neck prickled, his fingers tight around the horse’s reins. If his status alone would not make the situation resolve itself pleasantly, his wit would. He’d see the truth of the matter and, should the guard be testing him, would gladly parade the man with him all the way to Minrathous for proper discipline. “If that is the case, I expect to see the Imperial Decree. Forthwith.” And, to punctuate, he snapped his fingers. “Go.”

Impertinent, this guard: he held Dorian’s stare for several beats, before turning and walking in deliberately slow steps back to the guard house and disappearing inside its recesses.

“Problem?” asked Talen, voice low.

Dorian swivelled. Of course Talen hadn’t been able to keep up with the exchange – his Tevene, though progressing, remained faltering, and the back-and-forth had gone by quickly and at some distance from his lover, who had drawn his horse up quite a few lengths back. Uneasy, perhaps, here on the cusp of the fabled land of vice and treachery. It was entirely to be expected.

What Dorian hadn’t expected was the cast of his lover’s face: stiff, as if chiseled from stone, tension cording his neck, hands bunched, hard, around the reins, so that Dorian could make out a point of white on each knuckle against the bronze of his skin.

“Nothing worth noting,” he said breezily, tossing the man the briefest of smiles. Were they not here on the edge of Tevinter, he might have followed up with _amatus_ , as that invocation seemed so often to smooth the tension out of Talen, to put him at ease and settle his nerves.

Not here, however. Not until they left again through this same gate by which they would enter.

The guard emerged, a smear of black against the white stone. In his hand, a paper, held carefully with his gauntleted hands. “For your perusal,” said the guard, proffering the decree when he drew close. The hilt of his sword brushed the tip of Dorian’s boot.

If the man meant to intimidate him, he’d best try it on someone less accustomed to staring down the gullets of dragons and into the roiling green of Fade rifts. Dorian scanned the document, checked the legitimacy of the crest, and flicked the infuriatingly _valid_ parchment back at the guard – who had to scramble, awkward, to catch it before it fell to the ground.

It would seem that Tevinter had changed more than he had given it credit. This, however, was not a sign of growth, but a mark of the Archon’s fear of retribution for slipping from his alliance with the Inquisition – the action of a frightened man, concerned about who might be coming to find him. All of Thedas knew of the prowess of the Inquisition’s spies and its spymasters, the one now sitting on the Sunburst Throne, the other pulling her strings into clever little nooses from within Skyhold.

All of it spelled trouble: a frightened Archon was a weak Archon, and others would have noticed by now. Such fear had a way of stinking up the Magisterium, acrid and sour, as blood in the water might cloud and billow until sharks came calling, eager for the kill.

He had best get to Minrathous quickly. With the correct pieces in place, Cassius could shore up the Archon’s vulnerabilities and, in doing so, bring stability to the Magisterium, all the while strengthening his own position.

“Dorian of the House of Pavus,” he said. “Travelling with my companion, Falon Sabrae.”

“And the papers for him?” A nod of the head toward the Inquisitor, whose horse, again, pawed the worn stones of the highway.

“He requires none, as he is decidedly not a slave.”

“You’ll forgive me, Altus, but we hear that often enough when it’s true less than half of the time.” The guard pivoted, looking straight to Talen.

With a flick of his wrist, Dorian turned his horse, pushing into the insipid man’s personal space, so that he had to stumble backwards, out from underneath the beast’s large head.

But still, the guard persisted. “Are you a slave?”

Talen, painfully upright and tense, narrowed his eyes. “ _Are I a slave_?” he repeated, in halting Tevene.

“He doesn’t speak the language,” Dorian snapped.

“ _Servus_ ,” repeated the guard. Then, in the common tongue, “Slave. Are you a slave?”

A line appeared between Talen’s eyebrows, mouth twisted into a hard shape. “I’d gathered that much,” he said, voice tight as a taut bowstring, ready to loose an arrow at the twitch of a hand, “But I didn’t think it fit to dignify with an answer. But, because you persist, _no_ , I am not a slave. I have none of the markings of one, nor the bearing. I come not in shackles, nor with head bent. I am but an elf – but I suppose we all seem slaves to you.”

Dorian stiffened, shoulders drawing tight. This was precisely what he’d been concerned about, that his lover’s sense of – justice, of right and wrong, would utterly collapse under the weight of all there was to despise in Tevinter, which was a substantial amount indeed. If he could not make it past the border without creating conflict –

“You’ve our names now,” Dorian said, just as the guard opened his mouth, “and thus our business with you is concluded, soporati. Open the gates. The road to Minrathous is still long.”

Perhaps hearing the iron in Dorian’s voice, or resigning himself to the futility of holding them off, or perhaps because he could taste the danger in the air, sharp and hot, the guard did as commanded, and the gate was opened to them.

They were well up the road when Dorian finally felt secure enough, far enough away from prying ears, to speak the words that had been waiting insistently on the tip of his tongue. He pulled his horse to a hard stop, turning to meet his lover head on. “You _cannot_ do that every time someone says something insulting or backward or awful. Maker help me, we are not here for you to prattle on about the plight of your people – we are here to improve this country, thereby having the desired effect of bettering conditions for elves and all those who have been unjustly treated for centuries in the Imperium. I cannot succeed in this if I have to _supervise_ all of your interactions, lest you –”

“Lest I, what, speak my mind?” A scowl crossed Talen’s face, along with a shadowed, strained look: shock, hurt, something else insufferably out of proportion for the situation at hand. “You can ask me to not get involved. You can’t ask me to not have a thought of my own.”

“You _always_ have a thought of your own. Whether or not you give voice to them is the matter at hand – and I know you’ve worked long enough with Josephine to understand that some things require tact. You must follow my lead in this. It was our agreement.”

“I –” But he brought himself up short. Stopped and looked away, then sighed. “Alright, yes. Of course. It’s just – you don’t know how hard it is to have someone assume something about you just because –”

For someone who spent so much time thinking about others, he could be remarkably self-centered. Something buzzed, waspish, inside of Dorian’s chest, and, when he spoke, his words were as tight and sharp as that unnamed feeling underneath his skin. “That is, indeed, something I understand, having just spent years of my life being assumed unrepentantly evil and a sinister practitioner of blood magic simply because I am Tevinter. It was not because of selfish reasons that I recommended you not accompany me. It is because I _know_ what this is like, all of it.”

Ah, that stilled him. Talen fell into silence, still averting his gaze. After several beats, and with a surprisingly soft tone, “How did you manage to not bite your tongue off, then? I ought to learn, if I’m to do as I promised, and would benefit from your wisdom.”

Had anyone else said it, and in any other way, Dorian would have assumed it snide, a sharp jab meant to wound, but, from Talen, it was as genuine as the man himself. Dorian sighed, the wind effectively gone from his sails, all the anger bled from him. It was impossible to stay annoyed with his lover, when he was so very receptive to being chastised.

“Oh, I don’t know. I held on to all the fury and condensed it into a little gem of absolute bitterness, for use at a later date. Besides,” Dorian smiled, even if the shape felt wrong – too thin, too uneven, “I am rather attached to my tongue. The praise it’s won me! I could never treat it so cruelly, after all we’ve been through together.”

“Believe me, I appreciate your restraint.” Talen looked up, finally, the smallest smile tugging at the corner of his lips, and then he drew himself back up – putting the Inquisitorial mantle back on, so to speak, until he sat, straight and firm, a picture of composure. “Well, shall we? Minrathous awaits.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Finally, to his blessed city of origin, to the hallowed halls and streets that had shaped his youth, honed his mind, and helped him cultivate the skills necessary to return, now, to help redirect the whole nation toward better, nobler ends.

Of course, when they did arrive in Minrathous, it was without the emotional fanfare Dorian had expected: surely, he would feel _something_ , at seeing his city stretch, vast and pristine, before him; surely, his city would respond in kind, trumpets, flags, the like. After such an absence, approaching a decade, surely he might feel an upwelling of appropriate and noble emotion.

Instead, he realized, rather distantly, that travelling had left him feeling shabbier than he liked, and that all he wanted to do now that he had arrived was draw a bath and soak until he felt some semblance of –

It was hard to pin down. Pride? Preparedness? Desire to begin wading through the seemingly endless parade of magisters and Altus personae, all of whom needed wooing, or intimidating, or setting very firmly and soundly in place?

If Minrathous wasn’t eliciting the stirring internal response he’d expected in himself, at least Talen was struck. Next to him, his lover drew short, reining his horse to a stop.

Dorian tried to imagine seeing the city for the first time, with eyes untainted by years and years of experiences and pain and, occasionally, flitting triumph – the city as it stood, not mired in the palimpsest of memory. But Minrathous had always been home. For Dorian, it could not be new again. He could not see it just as it was, only as seen through the filter of perception.

“It’s –”

Talen stopped. Frowned. Shifted.

“What?” Dorian asked, voice thinning. He had expected adulation and wonder. Certainly, nothing in the south even neared Minrathous in its finery. Val Royeaux, though it masked itself as finely as a Orlesian noble, was as ugly underneath all its finery as a dowager pretending to be twenty years her junior. Minrathous had the integrity of age and of history. Minrathous was, in the end, all that a city ought to be, despite her finer vices.

To think a man who had spent his life in _wagons_ could bring criticism against the city’s splendour, the significance of its visual and emotional impact –

“Very white,” he finished. “And with the water –” a hand, raised to shield his eyes, as sunlight glinted off the distant harbour, “No wonder you all dress in so much black. Anything else, and you’d be outdone by _this_.”

“Well, we can’t be outdone now, can we?”

But Talen was, however inarticulate about it, correct: the water oscillated in the distance, the sky above burnt to a pale blue by the near-white orb hovering in the sky. Heat rolled off the stones beneath them, the air above the city rippling as if an illusion of delirium. Sprawled along the coast, Minrathous could almost appear lazy, careless, if not for the precise order of her streets, the neat structure of her partitioned sections, the city’s planning evident even at this distance. The University crowned one hill, the Imperial Senate the other, each cluster of buildings as pristine as the day they were constructed – arches and columns and parapets, soaring to the heavens. Lofty ambitions made reality by the architects of yore, who understood, even then, that a city’s most necessary buildings must reflect her people.

Minrathous was home to those who would place themselves in the heavens. Greater ambitions could not be had.

“Now might also be the time to add that I finally understand why you complain constantly of the cold,” said Talen, hair damp at the nape of his neck, the sheen of sweat evident on the corded muscles of his forearms and, to Dorian’s prickling frustration, infuriatingly and unreasonably attractive.

He paused, to take a longer look at Talen. The Inquisitor was nearly as bright as the ocean itself, sunlight positively _gleaming_ across his skin, all bone and taut muscle and wry little smile. Like banked fires glinting off bronzed statues, incense heavy and sensuous in the air. If circumstances were rather different, Dorian might press him back against the crooked and crouched tree growing to the side of the Imperial Highway, tilt his neck back –

No use thinking of what might be. Especially now, when all the redolent pleasures of Minrathous lay before them.

“If you even once dare to complain about the heat, know that I will never again idly abide that look you get whenever I mention how ceaselessly cold and miserable the south is,” Dorian said, legs pressing against the sides of his horse, who began a relaxed amble toward the city. “It’s always, _that Dorian, such a hothouse orchid, such a remarkably precious flower who cannot withstand the real world_ , when perhaps it ought to be, _those barbarous brutes who think that temperatures that would wilt any worthwhile bloom constitute_ summer _and who, furthermore, think wallowing in mud and slush aids in developing one’s character_.”

A laugh, then, coppery underneath the furious sun. In the distance, smoke curled up toward the wild sky; locusts sang on the wind that rolled in across the harbour. “I suppose it’s all a matter of perspective, isn’t it,” said the Inquisitor. “Things that are entirely banal in one place may be otherworldly in the next. Hence my silence as soon as we approach the city entrance, _ma vhenan_ : this place is yours. I’ve promised to hold my tongue, and so I shall.”

“Not forever, I hope,” said Dorian. “You may have a thing or two worth saying.”

“Or two,” repeated Talen.

They fell into silence under the raging sun and sky, the city growing larger before them. The air tasted like _home_ , Dorian thought: salt, perfumed smoke, cedar. As the Imperial Highway split into myriad streets that wound their way through the city, carefully controlled thoroughfares connecting one ancient section to the next, along inlets, between bridges, and through marketplaces, the sounds of his homeland clarified. Men and women carousing and bartering in his own tongue, the shift in pressing crowds as he passed – the stature of an Altus Tevinter could never be mistaken, even if he did not wear the markings of a magister.

Here, the world made sense. Faces of every shade imaginable, unconcerned with his passage, while other heads, bent and solemn slaves, punctuated the endless sea of Soporati. Dorian turned his horse down a street tented with raucously coloured silks, fruits and spices spilling from stand after stand.

Onwards they pressed, the avenue opening up into a broad thoroughfare that led to a gate as tall as the gates at Skyhold, and in much finer shape still. Here, the white walls leapt toward the sky, proclaiming that those who entered this inner sanctum approached the heavens themselves.

Cassius wouldn’t have dared put Dorian up in any place outside of the resplendent neighbourhoods populated almost entirely by Altus citizens.

The crowds thinned, the streets wide and impeccably clean. The occasional sweeper, slaves of the state, worked cleaning traces of dirt and grime even Dorian, ever eagle-eyed, couldn’t identify, or else tended to the trees that had been carefully shaped into orderly, neat forms, any fallen leaves swiftly removed.

Finally, the hotel: a tidy, square building, all of its ledges chiselled with precise, fine patterns, the columns out front bright with hanging silks and lanterns that, even in the day, were lit and gleaming in an array of colours – a small alchemical trick, to coax fire into shades unimaginable in the perpetually brown and mucky south.

A slave waited outside, a dark-skinned elf with his head bent to the ground, hands clasped before him. Dorian drew his horse to a halt.

Without word, the slave held the beast’s head, as another slave, this one more upright, emerged from the broad, teal doors. “Master Pavus,” said the slave, smiling demurely. The gold necklace around her throat – a nod to the traditional slave’s collar – gleamed with indigo light as she passed beneath one of the lanterns. “We welcome you most graciously to _The Dragon’s Heart_ – allow me, master.” A proffered hand, as Dorian swung down from his horse. Her palm was warm, dry.

“Trio will take your horses to the stable, and another of the house slaves will ensure your belongings are brought upstairs. I am Petra, and am pleased to be your assigned slave for the duration of your stay. Will –” and here she showed her excellent training, bright green eyes flicking for a moment to Talen, who had swung resolutely off his horse and stood holding the reins, “your companion be in need of a personal slave? We have many excellently trained servants – our masseuse, Miklos, is especially gifted – and we remain pleased to serve in whatever way we might.”

Whatever way they might. Yes, Dorian was aware of precisely what that entailed. The restrictions that governed relations between members of the lofty upper classes did not hold when dealing with slaves, and so he was… not entirely unaccustomed to such offers, although he had always found the thought of making someone _endure_ being his lover rather than enthusiastically, if surreptitiously, enjoying the utmost quality of his company rather distasteful, and not a small bit insulting.

“No,” Dorian said, aware entirely of the set of eyes pinned on the back of his neck. “A generous offer, Petra, but I’m sure we’ll be fine on our own. One does become rather accustomed to the sparse ways of life in the south, despite one’s self – and so, after guiding us to the suite, I will release you of your duties.”

Her smile remained demure, as fixed and unchanging as the distant vista. “Of course, Master Pavus and –” She paused, turning that warm expression on Talen.

“Lord Sabrae,” Dorian supplied.

Another slave emerged from the building, slipping from its shaded, open antechamber underneath the proud row of columns to begin efficiently gathering their goods for transport to the suite.

Dorian noticed, with the tight focus of a man half-certain his lover might at any moment try to wrest the slaves around him to freedom, Talen’s fingers curling. Of course he would want to take his belongings himself, a paragon of self-sufficiency incapable of allowing anyone to do anything for him. He would have to grow accustomed to the endless parade of slaves, parading their way through the Imperium with the sole purpose of making life easy for those on top. Which would, by rules of association, include the Inquisitor, however anonymous he wished to remain.

In truth, Dorian had nearly forgotten this feeling: being pampered, attended to diligently. He, too, had been forced to learn a reluctant self-reliance. Had he been different, however, his dependence on a system that had once held him aloft might have also trapped him in Tevinter, incapable of being himself and yet incapable – truly – of leaving.

Graciously, Dorian was a man of hidden depths, and he had discovered a backbone of steel beneath his comely interior. Leaving all he had known behind those eight years past was made possible because he had somehow unearthed an ability to take care of himself, despite the dependence Tevinter had tried to cultivate in him.

Still, being taken care of again, if for but a few months, would not be something he would decline.

With a bowed head, dark curls caught in a neat twist at the base of her neck, Petra escorted them in through the large door, studded with bronze cones. The inside of the space yawned open, a reflecting pool laid into the centre of the room amid a rectangle of columns, each hanging with more of those pretty little lanterns.

The room, as resplendent as it was, stood empty, footsteps echoing against the vaulted ceilings. “Do you have many guests at the moment?” Because, if chances were that he stood to run into someone wealthy enough to take a suite at _The Dragon’s Heart_ , it would be someone worth knowing – and perhaps using.

“Only you, Master Pavus, and Lord Sabrae, for the moment. We’ve the son of an Antivan merchant prince coming next week to one of the lower suites, and a preeminent mathematician from the University of Orlais arriving shortly thereafter. The summer months are not our most busy; too few remain in the city when the Senate is not in session, and often those who stay with us have purposes requiring long strings of meetings with those same citizens who retreat during these hot months.” Out through another grand room, oil paintings and finely wrought furniture tucked into every corner – a reclining settee, for late night cozying up in the seclusion of the inner rooms.

No one requiring immediate concern or attention, it would seem.

“A mathematician,” Dorian said. “How _interesting_.” He followed Petra’s silent movement to a staircase that led up the three flights to the top level. They would be in the grandest suite, then, with the balcony wreathed in grapevines still heavy with fruit, which he’d espied and admired from outside.

And, indeed, the suite into which Dorian entered could be called nothing but grand.

_This_ was the splendour he had anticipated upon arrival at Skyhold, not a castle that looked more likely to fall down than house any genuinely powerful or influential political force. The front rooms opened onto the balcony, pale blues and yellows against the omnipresent white of the walls and ceiling – a writing desk, a seating area cleverly tucked close to the open balcony, where the occasional breeze might roll in and offer some relief in the heat of summer.

And it was hot. Even the shaded recesses of the hotel were close with it, warmth teasing the line of Dorian’s throat, prickling at his collarbone.

He might have said it was uncomfortable, were it not that this was precisely the sort of delicious, humming heat he had been absolutely unable to recreate since leaving Tevinter for southern climes. The sort of heat that made him feel as if he might never be cold – that the damp chill of spring and those damned Frostback mountains might never again touch him.

“Your belongings will be up shortly, Master Pavus,” Petra murmured, stepping around Talen as he, too, entered the reception room. “Is there anything at all I might offer you?” Hands clasped lightly in front of her, brown against the long, pale shift that marked her a household slave – but one of significant status, judging by the golden necklace that hang, heavy, against her throat, the quiet confidence in her manner.

“I imagine you’ve chilled summer wines in the cellar. Send one – something crisp, I should think, to stand against the balm of the day.” If Niteo intended to put Dorian up, he would very well take advantage.

With a graceful pivot, she disappeared, and Dorian was alone, again, with his lover, in a place utterly unlike any other. A place as dangerous as it was beautiful.

“So,” Talen said, edging into the space as though he were afraid to get something dirty, “this is it.”

“Not nearly as hedonistic as anticipated? Fewer blood mages chasing down screaming children in the streets? Nary an orgy to be seen, much to the disappointment of all?” Dorian peered through the set of peaked doors that led back to the second, more intimate reception room, then the bedroom near the back of the suite, which would have a smaller balcony overlooking the inner gardens.

“Something like that, I suppose,” breathed Talen. He moved to the writing desk, fingers trailing along the smooth surface. “Plenty of slaves, though.”

“Well, that is something we’re aiming to correct.” It may have sounded a bit sharper than he’d meant it, but Dorian could not have this particular conversation yet again.

A small, tight smile in response. “Of course.” He walked to the balcony and cast a glance outside. “This isn’t particularly secure, you realize. Anyone with half a mind to do you harm might use that trellis two houses down – see? there,” Talen gestured, though Dorian didn’t go over to inspect, “to gain the vantage point, from which it would be but a few short jumps to the edge of the balcony. Done quietly enough, you might use the foliage to delay notice and watch for some while for the opportune moment.”

“And people say you’re _no fun_ at parties.”

The door to the suite opened, and two hitherto unseen slaves brought in their goods, one taking Dorian’s things silently to the bedroom, the other… _lingering_ by the door, Talen’s bundled goods in hand.

Dorian’s eyebrows inched up. The boy still stood.

Finally, it came to him, like a knife twisted into his lower abdomen. _Of course_.

“In the attending servant’s quarters,” he said.

The boy was off, disappearing into what Dorian knew would be the smallest, least fine part of the suite, just off the bedroom – a tiny piece of space carved out as subtly as possible, so that a guest might always keep his personal slave close at hand. Should any need arise.

Had Dorian accepted Petra’s offer to be his personal servant while he stayed here, she would have stayed, always at his beck and call, ready to ensure his complete comfort and contentedness.

Instead, for the sake of propriety, he would make his lover stay, to all appearances, in quarters befitting a slave.

They were gone and the promised vintage – a straw-coloured wine, condensation dotting the neck of the bottle, trickling down its smooth surface in small, enticing rivulets – arrived. Dorian poured himself a large glass, and dropped heavily onto the blue chaise.

“Astute as you are in your observations,” the unspoken amatus ripe on his tongue, but bitten back, “you are without all of the pertinent knowledge: houses in Minrathous who keep anyone worthwhile inside of their walls are guarded by more than _architecture_. There are many appropriate little wards and spells in place to ensure assassins, or jealous lovers, or whatever ilk of would-be murderer you can imagine, doesn’t simply hop over from a ledge and lie in wait behind a cluster or two of grapes.” A sip of the wine, bright and dry and cool against the back of his tongue. “Really, if it was as simple as all that, there wouldn’t be a magister left in the whole of Tevinter.”

“Dorian,” said Talen, face darkened, in parts, by shadows of leaves crowning the balcony. “What was that about?”

“What was what about? You’ll need to be more specific. There is a great deal of _what_ in Tevinter.”

Except Dorian knew precisely what the Inquisitor wanted addressed, even as he spun his words into clever little circles meant to dazzle and distract, his palm dampening against moisture of the cool glass. Still, he could always hope.

A slow breath, like he was steadying himself – the same sort of look on Talen’s face that he got before a battle.

Perhaps Dorian wasn’t the only one among them who found himself sometimes thinking of his lover as an opponent. A danger, perhaps, of fighting for years on end, from one brutal brawl to the next, always scrambling to stay alive, to keep the whole blighted world from falling apart.

As little as he knew about being inside of relationships, he suspected that feeling as if he were in perpetual battle was not customary.

“I agreed to play this charade with you when I arrived, but as your friend, your companion.” A crease appeared between his eyebrows. “I said, clearly, Dorian, that I would not be your slave.”

Dorian’s fingers tightened around the glass he held, tension bunching his shoulders which, of their own accord, drew tight. Beneath his skin, the buzzing of anger, the crackling of a fire that threatened uncontrolled spread. “I’ve said nothing –”

“You told him I’d be staying in the –” He broke off, with a frustrated sound. “I don’t know the term, not really, but I know that it’s something like being a personal slave. Attached entirely to one _owner_ ,” the word dropping out of his mouth like it were coated with poison, bitter and deadly.

Still, Dorian’s shoulders were tight. Still, his fingers pressed hard against the slick glass. Inside, the wine grew warm. “It is entirely clear to every slave in attendance at this house that you are _not_ one of them. I’ve given you an appropriate title; that you stay with me is admittedly a bit peculiar, though they may think it at the behest of the Inquisition. That you stay _in my bed_ is _entirely_ out of the question, and so I had the boy put your things where there is _another bed_ , to put rumours to rest.”

“I could have found somewhere else to stay,” said Talen, staring out through the grape leaves wrapping the balcony.

As petulant as a child, sometimes, and as infuriatingly numb to reason.

Dorian pushed himself forward, reached out and poured cooler wine into the glass. A sip, though now it was soured with this – this constant source of _needling_ , of childlike naivete and its accompanying sense of right and wrong.

“An unlikely prospect for a lone elf travelling through Minrathous. The fact of the matter, _my dear_ ,” said Dorian, trying half-heartedly to pretty up his tone, to smooth out the barbs meant to catch skin and draw blood, though some of the edge could not be ground down by even the whetstone of affection, “is that there are codes here – rules to how we move, how we speak, how we look at those around us – that dictate where we fall in the social hierarchy. These are codes that I know how to decipher, with which I am intimately familiar; these rules are mine for bending or for breaking – or, and I know you will struggle to believe this, sometimes for abiding by.” He tried a small smile, but it fell flat.

Onwards, then, for the final blow. “Talen, you _must_ be willing to trust me to choose the most beneficial road through these woods. I have followed you gladly these past years and trusted wholly in your judgment. I ask that you put that same faith in me. The decisions I must make will not always be pleasant, but they are made carefully and with great deliberation.”

In the distance, bells rang. The University calling its students back for afternoon session. A breeze, humid, rolled in through the balcony, smelling of salt and smoke and perhaps, faintly, cypress.

Finally, Talen turned. “Of course I trust you,” he said, voice soft. “More than anyone else – with all of my heart, _ma vhenan_. But I struggle with this, all of this, in this place. I am so very proud of you and I only want –” A catch in his voice, then the straightening of shoulders and steeling of his stare that was, all of it, indicative of the man who could shape nations; the shifting from mere mortal into the stuff of legend, a transfiguration Dorian had often witnessed – too often, he thought, when Talen wanted but to speak with _him_.

One ought not have to remind himself, Dorian thought, that he could rearrange the world when simply speaking to a lover.

“You know that I worry about… seeming rather faded indeed, when standing next to you. I feel it even more so now, when we walk in your homeland which boasts impossible grandeur around every corner. I think sometimes that I must seem dull indeed, if this – grace, this remarkable richness of colour and finery, is the standard against which you judge all else.”

The last remaining dribs of Dorian’s anger folded in on themselves until they became nothing at all, smaller than motes of dust. He stood, then walked to his lover.

So it was this particular thread again. Before any of it – before the Inquisitor insisted Dorian meet with his father, before he set himself the task of retrieving Dorian’s amulet, before he had, falteringly, asked Dorian if they might _stay together_ , after everything was over – Dorian had thought Talen singularly confident. A paragon of all the finer qualities one might have: nobility, idealism, integrity, certainty.

Despite his title, however, the Herald of Andraste remained a man, and men had pasts that left peculiar, unexpected wounds, which never quite fully healed. A broken heart in youth, dashed dreams, a terrible lie that ate away at the foundation of surely one of the greatest men in all of Thedas.

“Amatus,” he said, hand to the back of Talen’s head, brushing the dark hair there softly, relenting and finally using the word that could, he knew, draw all the tension out of his lover like venom from a wound, “I have told you before, and I will repeat it until you have cause enough to believe me: there is nothing about you that I do not find endlessly fascinating. It is because of you that I’ve come to Tevinter: to see you changing the world for the better and to remain unmoved, unwilling to try the same myself? You’ve said you’re proud of me. I would be worthy of that pride.”

His lover’s grey eyes were bright, his skin hot underneath Dorian’s hand. “You didn’t need to come here to prove yourself worthy. You’re already the bravest man I know, _ma vhenan_.”

“I should also like to be the bravest man _I_ know, or at least a close second. A rather difficult feat when I spend all my time next to the man who chased a would-be god across the continent and brought him toppling to the ground.” He brushed his thumb against the soft skin at Talen’s throat, a smile curling one side of his mouth. “Really, do you have any idea how difficult it is to be the _less interesting_ half of a couple? I should think my ego would never recover, were I not also the _more sublimely groomed_ half.”

Another huff, something that, if he weren’t already darkened by the day and wearied by the road, might have been a chuckle. Talen’s forehead tipped forward to rest, briefly, against Dorian’s shoulder, and Dorian, in kind, tightened his hold. A brief moment of respite, sweet in its quiet reassurance, bitter in its inevitable end.

An end which arrived far too swiftly. “Alright,” breathed Talen, withdrawing. “I’ve taken enough of your time, when I know you’ve plenty that needs doing. Besides, I promised I wouldn’t be a burden; I should reign in the hysterics, before we give the servants cause for talk.” He pulled back, pausing for a moment to reach in and touch the side of Dorian’s face, his fingers warm and tentative – unsure. But in an instant, the certain Inquisitor returned, and the space between them grew nearly more solid, fixed, deliberate.

“In any case,” he added, “there’s a city to get to know, if I plan on running about it murdering for coin, and an assassin’s guild to find and make friends with. So I’ll be off.”

Dorian wanted to caution Talen about wandering Minrathous alone, remind him, like a clucking mother hen, of the dangers that lay in wait for elves here in Tevinter, the parts of the city likely to swallow him up or toss him, head first, into an unending string of encounters with smugglers and addicts and the basest sort of criminals imaginable –

But Dorian refused to give voice to the stream of concerns chattering inside of his head. He had asked for trust; he would give it in return.

“You’ve the address. Do try to ensure you aren’t assigned anything –”

_Too dangerous_ , Dorian wanted to say. _Too political. Anything that might bring you into contact with magisters, or blood magic, or, Maker forbid, slavers_.

“That doesn’t pay well,” he said instead. “You’ve some skill when it comes to murdering; I should hate to see it undervalued.”

A crooked smile, an impossibly quick kiss – all _heat_ and _need_ and _perfection_ so that, even as Dorian knew he ought to scold the man, he couldn’t bring himself to – and then Talen was across the room. “For my mind’s ease,” he said, hand hovering over the bronze handle in the middle of the door, “please leave me a note to let me know if you’ll be gone to all hours of the night. I don’t need to know where, or to which party, or with whom. I just– Well,” and the smile grew sheepish, and was so endearing that the little flickering of anger Dorian felt in his chest was smothered in an instant, “I _worry_. About people hopping onto balconies and hiding behind grapes, and, I don’t know, about those little pastries that might get caught in your throat when you’re politicking and eating at the same time. I’d rather you not be murdered horribly, by villain or by pastry.”

“You worry that I might choke on a pastry?” Dorian asked, eyebrows raised. “Really, you give me no credit at all.”

“Quite the opposite: I’ve just heard so very much about Tevinter cuisine, and how long you’ve been deprived of _anything decent and not positively caked with mud and filth_ , and I imagine the worst.”

His eyes rolled, entirely of their own volition. “Well, on the tail of that charming concern, I’m going to send you out the door. Go – practice your art.” A hand flick, a grin in return, and then Talen was gone, leaving Dorian alone with his thoughts. He took a swallow of wine, now decidedly lukewarm, and wandered back to the bedroom. Sunlight, gold and hot, cut triangles across the linens.

He had enough time, Dorian thought, to unpack, bathe, and ready himself before meeting with Cassius, and then it would all well and truly begin. No doubt someone of middling importance was having some sort of gathering tonight; no doubt he would attend, to begin laying the groundwork for appropriate and beneficial appointments, to see if he recollected the finer nuances of the dance for power within the Magisterium. A deep sigh, as he rolled his shoulders beneath his road-crumpled clothes. It was past time to change this country, but it would hold until he’d made himself presentable. There was really no telling where the evening might take him.

*****

Minrathous was, more or less, like any other city: there were those on top – rather literally in this case, as both the Senate and University crowned the hills on either side of the city, proclaiming very clearly that those who studied and practiced magic, who squabbled and fought within the Magisterium, were the ones who mattered – and there were those who were decidedly not.

It didn’t take Talen long to find the part of the city that belonged to the latter. It took him even less time to end up in the smallest bit of trouble.

He was being followed.

The maze of alleys and tiny neighbourhoods before him, all unfamiliar, as foreign as the script of a language he did not speak, were not friendly. Here, near the harbour, where fabric canopied the tops of the buildings, men and women hung out clothes and sheets and blankets to bake dry in the late afternoon sun, watching his passage through slitted, suspicious eyes. How they could ever hope to dry their linens in the omnipresent _humidity_ was well and truly beyond him, as, this close to the ocean, everything – the air, the sunlight, every inch of skin – felt wet. The smell of soaked cotton, damp and clean, made the air thick. He could feel every puff of wind, however minor and infrequent, across his skin.

It was how he’d known he had someone after him. The skin at the back of his neck cooled suddenly, the eddies and whorls left by someone ducking out of the way, slipping, they hoped, from his notice. Once, and it may have been an accident – someone intimidating by the savage elf with tattoos on his face, whose stare was far too brazen for a safe, controlled slave.

But, again and again, he felt the air behind him shift.

He was being followed in an unfamiliar city in an even more unfamiliar country.

If this was going to end in blood, it had best be away from the suspicious eyes of those living in this section of Minrathous. They seemed the sort who’d be out for blood, who’d join in the sport or bet on its outcome, or perhaps who might sell every scrap of information for a copper.

Talen needed seclusion. He ducked down a narrow alleyway, dark between two impossibly tall buildings, each crooked and threatening to come toppling over in less time than it would take to shore them up.

Were there a fire, everyone here would certainly perish. The walls of this neighbourhood effectively prevented easy movement. A push of bodies toward a single point of exit when panic was acrid in the air could spell nothing but death and destruction.

Around a corner, and into a small courtyard – derelict, a broken, disused fountain in the middle. Doors, boarded and nailed shut, around him.

Perhaps these buildings, so close to their inevitable slide into rubble, weren’t being used. There had to be some sense in Minrathous, even among those for whom life was a daily struggle.

It was a place as good as any. Talen turned, daggers in hand, and waited.

And then, from behind him, a scuff.

He whirled, a tight circle, the dagger already loosed from his hand in a precise arc –

A woman, dressed entirely in the omnipresent black cloth of this country, stood, perfectly still, his dagger catching the tail of fabric trailing from her bare shoulder and pinning it to the door behind her.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” he said, as her hand inched toward his dagger.

“You most certainly would,” she replied, in a low, raspy voice. “I’ve heard of your skill with blades, but this was surely not your best effort.” Her hand grasped the hilt of the blade, and she wrenched it, hard, from the door.

It had been buried deeply, biting angrily into the wood. Viciously.

“Did your journey weary you? Perhaps the fatigue has diminished your skill.”

“You mistake my intent,” he said. “Had I meant the blade to kill you, I would have ensured it found its mark.”

“If I’ve mistaken intent, give voice to your true purpose,” said the woman. She stood, steadily, unconcerned.

He knew who she was, in a roundabout way.

“I slowed you enough to see who it was dogging my steps, and managed to gain at least a moment’s attention from the head of the Society of the Black Orchid. It is good to meet you, Proxima.”

Her smile broadened, fingers caressing the edge of the blade thoughtfully. “You come with excellent recommendations. I am impressed that you knew enough to realize you were being followed when I left so few hints – a test seldom passed – and then to find your way to a place so secluded. Perception is a rare skill, patience even rarer; these are, perhaps, traits we can build on.”

_I’ve spent a great deal of my life stalking others – on the hunt for deer, or else for a man who would be god and each of his nasty little followers_ , thought Talen. _I should hope I can notice when someone is following me, and that I have sense enough to wonder who it is before cutting their throat_. But he wasn’t the Inquisitor, not any longer, not in this place.

“You can call me Falon,” he said, the name both familiar and unfamiliar in his mouth, “Should you ever need to call me by name.”

Her smile grew broader. “ _Should you need to call me by name, let my name be death_. A young assassin who knows his writ, and with such intriguing connections in the south. Master Pavus has spoken highly of you and I gather you’ve spent time with the Inquisition. Tell me,” her eyes, so dark as to seem black, swallowed him up. “What is that mark upon your hand?”

“Oh, this?” He sheathed his dagger, held up his left palm, twisted it in the shadows of the abandoned courtyard for her to see. This, he had anticipated. He’d been marked, stamped as clearly with his identity as if he’d come to Tevinter under fluttering banners and to the tune of trumpets.

With some input from Varric, he’d pieced together a tidy little story, one that would serve, and had visited a master tattooist among the Dalish in the Exalted Plains for her expertise before coming to Tevinter.

“This mimics an ancient elven glyph, found in a lost temple devoted to our highest god, Mythal. Many of the Dalish who follow the Inquisitor have received a similar mark – to speak of our devotion to his cause, to the people, and to the glory of what was once our empire. To the hope Lavellan has brought our people.” He paused, to look at the mark. Some of it, at least, was true: the glyph was from the Temple of Mythal, and Morrigan had promised him it meant something along the lines of _just vengeance_.

Not the softest, kindest sentiment he might have inked into his skin, but one that effectively captured all he felt when thinking about the failures of the ancient elves, the horrors his people had been forced to endure for centuries.

And it had been better than the alternatives, which all spoke of unyielding submission to gods he doubted still existed. This, at least, reminded him of all that was left to be done.

In the shadows, the assassin guildmaster shifted, her head tilted to one side. It may have been the light, but it looked, for a moment, as if her lips flickered into an upward curve, before smoothing to a more taciturn expression. “And your Inquisitor. Is he truly as great as he’s been rumoured to be?”

His heart stuttered for a moment inside of his chest, but then he remembered that he was Falon, and Falon was not short of opinions on the Inquisitor. “He’s a bit unfocused, but not without good intentions. And I’ve no cause to complain about what he’s accomplished, even if he does go about things a little less… _directly_ than I’d like to. I’m an assassin, not a diplomat. I favour efficiency.”

The look she wore was now most certainly a smile, however muted. Proxima walked across the courtyard toward Talen, handing his dagger back to him. Up close, he could see the fine lines at the edges of her eyes, the white threading through her pale hair. The shrewd blackness of her eyes. “I’ve a job for you – a simple enough contract, one that will adequately test your skill. Follow me to the Society house, and we will draw up your paperwork and set you to task with the necessary dossier, before setting you loose on Minrathous.”

And so he did, following her silent steps through the tangle of alleys and streets in this, the darkest quadrant of Minrathous. They crawled, through neighbourhood after neighbourhood, each finer than the next, as a series of jewels laid out on a jeweller’s pillow, directing the gaze ever forward to the finest, largest of gems. Attention slipped so easily from freshwater pearls and cloudy quartz to glittering rubies and diamonds; it was almost _easy_ to ignore that close, crowded neighbourhoods by the water, smelling of smoked fish and clean linens, when the spires of the University pointed toward the heavens, when bright markets replete with song and spice beckoned in Altus neighbourhoods, hidden safely behind gates as grand as they were forbidding.

Talen shouldn’t have been surprised to find the Society of the Black Orchid called an Altus neighbourhood home, that the Society house was as grand and as bright as the hotel in which he and Dorian were staying, in another pristine and elite neighbourhood closer to the Senate than the University.

Death was a game in Minrathous played by those with the most prestige, who built their little empires on the backs of slaves and the impoverished, all while trumpeting their own cleverness, their incredible mastery of the world.

A vile place. But a place Dorian loved; a place he wanted to see _better_. Was it truly a nation worth saving from itself? Were these people worth saving?

But he could hear Heir in his ear, as surely as if she stood at his side, astute, precise, unyielding. The writ, which she had loved to quote at him, particularly when he was feeling morally conflicted about some point or another, ready on her tongue. _Ours is not to question, but to be the blade in the dark: once set on course as certain in its coming as the deep night of the new moon. Should you need to call me by name, let my name be death. I have forsaken all other. I come from the dark, and to the dark I shall return – with you, o child, by my side._

His was not to question, but to be here, in Tevinter, where he could be by Dorian’s side in whatever sense Dorian might permit. To offer help, if nothing more than another set of eyes, a lover to fuss about balconies and watch, with the gaze Proxima called perceptive and patient, for coming threats. Because, while Dorian might not have anticipated trouble, Talen knew enough of this place – of its preeminent Society, its vicious, endless struggle for power and death – to be wary.

If that meant becoming a pawn in the dizzying games the magisters played with one another, so be it. He would see Tevinter from the inside, to observe, to notice, and to respond should response be necessary.

_Let my name be death_. And so it would be.

*****

Finding his way to the sumptuous celebration at which he would find his target was not particularly difficult: the fête was being held by a notoriously extravagant magister and no one in their right might would think to hold a social gathering in competition to one of hers. The Society of the Black Orchid had a research library that would have made Dorian dizzy, kept under careful lock and key; their notes on each and every person of interest were stunningly complete and, if Proxima could be believed, remarkably accurate. Although he wasn’t permitted unfettered access – _your ties to the Inquisition make you rather suspect_ , Proxima had said, though without judgment, _and thus all pertinent information will be gathered by one of our acolytes and compiled for your use_.

The notes on Magister Vyrania’s estate were as detailed as he’d expected, although navigating this city, which remained unfamiliar, still posed a challenge. Still, if there was but one party in town tonight, and it was one that couldn’t be missed by anyone of any importance, finding his way there was straightforward enough. Talen had but to find a mage dressed in such finery that Dorian looked, by comparison, nearly restrained, and to follow her and her companion as they wound their way through empty streets kept unnaturally clean by public slaves.

They spoke in Tevene, of course, heads ducked together and hair threaded through with jewels and pearls, but Talen knew enough of the language to piece together a picture of the recent scandal under their scrutiny. A sudden death in a circle, some upstart daring to suggest she had enough experience to fill the role, despite her youth.

Things that hardly mattered and captured little of Talen’s attention. Things that were of even less interest to _Falon_ , the one called death.

He trailed behind them, taking note of the darkened houses, emptied either because their owners travelled to country estates or because they, too, went to Vyrania’s gathering. The moon crowned the sky in open-faced glory, diminished occasionally by cloud but otherwise painting the white city as brightly as torchlight and cooler still. The air had grown nearly chill, the omnipresent heat finally bled from it, although still the walls of the white buildings radiated a lingering warmth. Still, the smell of dry foliage, smoke in the distance, spices he couldn’t name.

The women turned a corner, and approached a building at the end of the street – tall, as all the houses here, but broad, with lights streaming from every window, shutters thrown open so that the radiant atmosphere of the building spilled generously to the street beyond it. The courtyard was filled with people, all dressed in their finest, the trill of conversation, as foreign and incomprehensible as birdsong, heady in the evening air.

He held back, remained in shadow while taking in the scene. There, a man and a woman having a fight, though they tried to make it look amicable for their audience. Here, a woman sitting by the fountain, watching those around her as might a predator stalking prey. In the distance, another woman, with a halo of dark, curly hair and a beautiful, shockingly genuine smile, being introduced to a cluster of – he peered closer – yes, magisters, each of whom wore vestiges of his or her office: the cut of cloth, a marked ring, an amulet slipping artfully and intentionally through folds of draped fabrics.

Although, of course, everyone knew precisely who everyone else was, and if they mattered, and in what sense. But, still, those who clawed their way to the top social echelons in Minrathous, as elsewhere, liked to remind those around them just how far they’d come.

Foolish, to boast of one’s status in a den of lions. It was hard to say who might take advantage, press in on a sudden weakness to take title and standing away.

That was Minrathous, much as it was Val Royeaux.

Strange, what people grasped for, when they had all the world open before them.

Tall buildings and houses, some storefronts, others residences, hemmed the square in, effectively containing the party-goers. Talen knew that there would be another, more secluded courtyard at the back of the house. The host, Magister Vyrania, was extremely wealthy and inordinately fond of her gardens. Her parties were thus some of the most eagerly anticipated in Minrathous: many a shaded alcove for secret alliances or dalliances of another sort entirely. The effects of an evening at Vyrania’s could be significant – marriages made or destroyed, alliances forged, betrayals plotted, and, on occasion, deaths to be had.

Though Talen planned to be subtle, if the body of his target was found before the evening was through, it would be considered an excellent gathering indeed.

_This place_.

He would, Talen thought, bringing his mind back to his contract, need to make his way to the gardens. That was where he would find his mark, should the man be as eager as the dossier seemed to indicate. The target was a man of minor importance who worked within the Publicanum but had rather recently been in pursuit – a successful pursuit, it would seem – of another official’s wife, this one with coin enough to hire a hit.

Marriages were as strategic in Tevinter as the alliances made in darkened hallways and sealed with whispered avowals. His patron, in this, was wise: best to send a clear message to all those who might try to poach a partner with connections enough to make her second marriage equally profitable for the successful suitor.

What was love in this place? There was only death: of decency, nobility, integrity. All the things that mattered most to Talen were turned aside in favour of pettiness and the meaningless scramble for power.

Power hardly mattered if you could not rest easy in your own heart.

Still, it was none of his concern. His concern was dealing death, swiftly and silently, and then disappearing back into the night.

If he would be overlooked, he might as well do some looking of his own. He might stop to take note of what exactly constituted an evening’s entertainment in Minrathous, having heard enough about Tevinter’s purported grandeur over the years.

Although, when pressed for details more important than what constituted a night well-spent in Minrathous, Dorian could be exactingly and painfully precise, the man was also prone to artful exaggeration. It would, Talen thought, be a pity to not even linger in the shadows for a few moments to sort the fact of this place from the fiction.

But first, the garden and his target.

Talen would need to find a more surreptitious way to finish this job than his usual use of flasks. The house would be warded against the certain alchemical mixtures that would make his task easier: little wisps, called through the Fade to watch benevolently. An unreliable magic and good for only very specific things. Dorian had, he’d learned in his meeting with Proxima at the Society house, been generous in his description of the protections offered by magisters’ residences. Certain tools of the trade might set off alarms, but sneaking around would certainly not.

Indeed, if everyone with murderous intent was barred from entering a celebration, there might be no one in attendance. This was, after all, Tevinter.

Back into the darkness. Talen retraced his steps through the immaculate neighbourhood, the sounds of the fête growing muffled in the distance, and then fading to nothing, until he could but hear the sound of his own heart. Overhead, the leathery rustle of wings on the air as bats searched out evening insects, set loose, finally, by the heat’s abatement.

He turned another side-street, this one narrow, still canopied with fine fabrics muted to dark hues in the depth of night. It ran parallel to the courtyard full to the brim with magisters and mages, a secondary channel that might provide him with means to his end. To his patron’s end.

A building stood at the end, with a trellis redolent with grapes. The way in.

Talen hurried down, reaching and testing the strength of the trellis. Finding it adequate, he pulled himself up – over one balcony, up to the next, all the way to the gently pitched roof, clay tiles still warm beneath his palms.

He paused at the precipice, looking around, crouching by a spire so that his shadow might be unnoticed.

From here, he could see the harbour, the moon’s reflection jagged across the tops of the waves, ship’s masts bristling the skyline by the docks. The city spread before him, a sea of lights sectioned off neatly, with its perpetually shining crown jewels – the University and the Imperial Senate – lit bright as beacons. Always, they shone; always, they drew the eye.

From here, he could also see the dark square of Vyrania’s gardens, the grounds sprawling more generously than he might have anticipated – larger, he thought, than the inner courtyards of Skyhold. She would have needed to buy the plots from other wealthy Altus families, perhaps to demolish entire buildings to create this kind of space, and then to wall the whole thing off. No easy feat, but one a woman with enough coin and influence, and fatted with the powers of her position, could accomplish if she were determined enough.

Alright. To work.

He slid carefully down the other side of the roof, searching for a place he might land without notice. Already, he could see couples, pressed together in the shadows. A trio, whispering in hushed voices of something that related to – he strained to hear – slaves, and a yellow bird.

To the far corner of the space, farthest from the open windows of the house, stood a cluster of dense trees, lush with foliage and perfumed blooms. Carefully, he edged along the roof, cloaking his shadow beneath the peak of the roof. This would place him far enough away from the light of the house to make his eyes less of a concern, though should the light happen to catch him, he hoped he might be mistaken for a cat.

A large cat, albeit. Perhaps a tiger. But, then, those in the gardens would have been drinking, so their higher faculties might be slightly compromised. And a tiger roaming the city was surely more believable than a Dalish elf turned assassin prowling rooftops. Talen had been through the marketplace in the middle city; he’d seen the cages with animals he’d only heard of in storybooks before today.

Had Dorian heard that little mental conversation, he would have rolled his eyes, and Talen would have been forced to agree. A roaming tiger may have been a _touch_ more fanciful than an assassin slipping from rooftop to rooftop. Underestimating his enemies would do him no good, and he had to credit magisters with at least enough real world knowledge to sort fantasy from a much more common reality.

Talen dropped down amid the white blossoms and tightly clustered branches, sinking into a low crouch while he gained a footing in this space. Underneath his boots, loose soil, which cushioned the impact of his feet.

He leaned forward. The gardens were complex, a labyrinthine tangle of hedges and benches, alcoves tucked underneath arbours hanging heavy with vines he could not identify. Statues, white marble, hid throughout the space, as true to life as those who’d been their inspiration, except motionless and preternaturally bright underneath the moonlight.

“You _mustn’t_ ,” breathed a voice, from the darkest shadows at the back of the garden. A semi-circle alcove set into the back wall, the most privacy this inner courtyard could afford – as far from prying eyes as possible, when those prying eyes weren’t attached to assassins.

Talen shifted, so that he could peer through the heavy branches, past petal and leaf.

A woman, sitting on the bench, draped skirt hitched high across her thighs. A man, in darker clothes, his hand already pressed underneath the dress and at work. He breathed, heavy and wet, into her ear, “I must. _We_ must.”

Verbs and pronouns Talen could very readily understand. It was a fortunate thing that most people grew – less verbose, when in the throes of passion.

It was then that he saw it: the glint of a thin gold chain around the man’s neck, a circular pendant on the end. Silently, Talen slid closer still, ducking out from his flowering tree to the shadows of a hedge, cloaked as surely as if he’d shattered a flask upon the flagstone path.

The man so breathlessly involved with this woman wore the mark of the Publicanum, and his profile – the hawkish nose, the shorn head – was a match for his documents. If only Talen might identify the woman at hand –

“ _Iona_ ,” hissed the man, as the woman’s ringed hands pressed against the back of his neck.

So kind when they cooperated. That would be the man of the hour, and the woman decidedly _someone else’s_ wife.

Talen reached down to the ground beneath him, fingers searching the soil for something useful. A small stone, rounded and cool. He picked it up, threw it across the walkway that led to the lover’s alcove, where it clattered with a sharp little sound not entirely unlike a footstep in the distance.

Both figures froze. The woman’s head drew up. She said something, sharp, in Tevene – words spoken too quickly for him to follow exactly, but he thought he heard the word for husband, and perhaps another for secret. In an instant, she was gone, back through the dark paths, which dipped and curled through this seemingly endless garden, to the bright house in the distance. To her husband, who had given coin to the Society to put an end to her little affair.

Alone, then, with only his mark to account for.

The man sighed, very loudly, and rested his face in his hands, bent over in a defeated slump.

Here, he might not be found until the next day. An ideal location.

Talen slipped from the shadows, edged closer. The moon above faded, for a moment, behind a wisp of cloud.

The man rubbed his forehead wearily, and Talen stepped behind him to slit his throat, as neat and tidy as he might a deer. With a hand pressed firmly over the man’s mouth, Talen wrenched him back over the bench and held him, the man’s hands flapping uselessly for the span of several breaths.

And then nothing, his blood spilling into sandy soil, carefully directed into shadow and stone instead of where careless feet might travel.

Success.

Talen checked the man for signs of life, but death was something at which he excelled. Pleased with the efficiency of the kill, he extricated himself from the corpse, a loose sprawl soon to become stiff and cool, and set off through the shadows again. He slipped his way through the chill air of the garden, past a hissing fountain and a couple whispering about someone’s father, until he found a tree large enough to support his climb back to the rooftops above. Grasping a rough-skinned limb, he pulled himself up, silent as a ghost, edging along the higher branches until he was able to make a short leap to the roof. There, still ducked behind the taller shadows of the neighbouring roof peaks – that Tevinter needed, unreasonably, to build everything _higher_ and _bigger_ and _grander_ worked utterly in his favour – Talen worked his way toward Vyrania’s house, each window thrown open, light pouring into the dark, cool night beyond.

Inside of the house, even more exquisitely furnished and kept than the suite at _The Dragon’s Heart_ , more mages milled around than he had ever, _ever_ , imagined might be in one place. Certainly, the mage’s tower at Skyhold seemed, on occasion, full to the brim with people who might set things on fire with their minds if they concentrated hard enough, but this was something else altogether. Room after room of lavishly dressed mages and magisters, each with enough prestige to warrant an investigation.

And they all wore smiles as deadly as those painted on the masks at the Winter Palace.

Talen peered closer, moving a little nearer – though he needed to be careful. He couldn’t garner attention. He had to remain unseen, unknown.

On the upper floors, past the small balcony overlooking the gardens from which he’d just come, a small room absolutely brimming with books.

It was then, of course, with a twist in his heart, that he saw Dorian.

He was wearing blue, a robe so intricate and fine that Talen thought, distantly, he might be afraid to even touch it, lest it should be ruined beneath his fingers. A glass of wine in one hand, that smile – so utterly, perfectly charming and carefully studied – lighting up the entire room in which he stood.

On one side stood a man, paler than Dorian, with hair like spun bronze and dark eyes. He was dressed in blacks, in a robe that spoke, in the shape of the shoulders, the particular folds at the waist, of the Magisterium. His gaze, bright and clever, flashed between Dorian and the three other people with them – the woman with a halo of dark hair and a quick, easy smile Talen had seen earlier in the courtyard, and a young man and woman who looked as though they must be related, with the same small nose, rounded chin, and glossy, dark curls.

Dorian laughed, then, at something the magister said, and launched into a speech of some sort, gesturing with the hand not fixed firmly around his glass of wine. The others watched him, enraptured. The woman with the beautiful smile interjected, eyes shining, and Dorian leaned in, conspiratorially, murmuring something into her ear.

She blushed, darkening her cheeks to chestnut.

Something curled, dark, at the back of Talen’s mind. He shouldn’t be watching this. He knew that much. This lurking in the shadows, it didn’t show _trust_ , and that was what Dorian had asked for. It was what he deserved.

But he didn’t watch because he didn’t trust Dorian. He watched because –

Because he wanted to see him here, like this. He wanted to see his lover as he was in his natural environment, in the halls and rooms of Minrathous that had, at once, schooled and suffocated him. To see the places and people that had helped make Dorian so singular.

And so – well, not broken, not exactly, but Talen would be lying if he allowed himself to think that he didn’t also want to understand why Dorian was so particular about so many things. Why he could become so strangely and suddenly _adversarial_ , why he refused, still, to let his lover see all of his heart. Why he hadn’t wanted Talen to come with him to Tevinter, because the reasons he had lined up, prettied and cleverly presented, were certainly not the whole picture.

Perhaps Dorian’s reluctance to have his lover with him had to do with Talen’s tendency to lurk in shadows, trying to ferret out secrets not yet readily offered.

Foolish, and to what end? Talen was not being what he ought to be, nor who he ought to be.

Dorian turned, suddenly, as another figure entered the small space, the two siblings ducking out to make way for her. Vyrania, Talen thought, from the ease with which she moved through the space – her home, her gardens, her infamous celebrations. The magister at Dorian’s side introduced them, and Dorian said something, smile tugging at his lips, and all three of his companions laughed, merrily, brightly.

Breath caught in his throat, Talen allowed himself to move a little closer. If he could but hear, even for a moment, what they spoke of in such animated tones. He might allow himself that much before leaving and stopping in again at the Society house. If could catch the names of the people to whom Dorian spoke, hear but a few words they shared so warmly, maybe he would understand –

But his foot slipped, kicking out and catching on a loose tile. It skittered down the edge of the roof, and toward the garden below.

Talen vanished in an instant, back up over the top of the roof and secreted away on the far side before the tile so much as hit the ground. With panic humming, sharp and acid, through his veins, he dropped down into the empty street below and left the neighbourhood as quickly as he could while still sliding unseen from shadow to shadow.

Mythal’s _sake_ , he could be _stupid_. If Dorian knew he’d been there, cloaked in darkness and watching from a distance, in one moment intrigued and in the next unfathomably – he had to name it, to be honest inside of his own head at the very least – _jealous_ , he would be furious. Incredibly hurt.

And rightly so. Guilt gnawed away at his stomach, a vicious, cruel beast, always hungry and always lying in wait. He came here as a support, not a – not a _commander_ , but a _companion_ , as promised. This was Dorian’s task and Talen must remain well and truly uninvolved unless asked, and that certainly included not stooping so low as to spy on his own partner.

The sickness curdling in his gut was not only guilt at his own failings as a lover, however.

Here, Dorian _shone_. He’d seen it the moment they drew to the Imperium border, in the change in his stature, the utter certainty with which he spoke in every interaction. More than his usual rhetorical genius, but an expert knowledge. A perfect confidence.

Talen had seen the way the people surrounding Dorian watched him, as moths drawn to a flame impossibly beautiful and bright – starstruck.

Dorian belonged here, amidst the endless, scintillating colours and textures, the breath-taking beauty and finery, the graceful and scripted interactions. Yes, certainly, he had found it stifling, and there were darker currents undergirding each breath, each word…

But still. Here he shone, bright as the star that crowned the sky, always pointing toward _home_. And Talen had to wonder: if Dorian was the guiding star in Talen’s sky, was Talen the same for him, or was it his homeland that always called him away?

*****

Dorian paused, mid-sentence, turning his head to gaze out the window into the endless dark outside.

“Never mind that,” said Vyrania, her darkly shadowed eyes glittering, painted lips curved into a sharp smile as dangerous as it was knowing. “My gardens are well used, though, as the evening goes on, those taking advantage of its… finer features do tend to grow slightly incautious.”

“How unspeakably rude,” Dorian said, raising an eyebrow. “To interrupt my train of thought, and just when I was on the cusp of being my most charming.”

“Oh, I doubt you’re done yet,” said Cassius. “Somehow, you always to find more _charm_ when all logic would dictate that the Imperium’s whole supply has been rather exhausted.”

The man was, Dorian had found this afternoon, utterly unchanged by the intervening years since they’d last laid eyes on one another. Tall and broad-shouldered, more the picture of a mage used to battle than one who fought his battles in ideology. Cassius remained as full of idealism and passion as ever, and as wholly focused on changing the Magisterium and, by extension, the country. _We need peace, Dorian_ , he had said, when first they met at his estate and set by the edge of his reflecting pool – one which made the offering at _The Dragon’s Heart_ look shabby indeed. _And that must begin within the Magisterium, before we can turn our eyes to the north_.

Dorian tipped his head. “One learns to find the finer things in life against all odds when one has been mired in the endless muck of the south. Believe me, if I can find my way to a witticism in Ferelden, it is no burden in Minrathous.”

“Surely, it’s not as bad as all that.” Aurelia, the darling girl who Cassius had decided would help in bringing about the peace he so desired within the Imperial Senate. She was, by all accounts, lovely: clever, studied in necromancy, and far too easy to like by half.

The Senate would eat her up and spit her out, were it not for Cassius shepherding her to safety. But if the Senate Cassius wanted to build was one for consensus and innovation, then he had chosen the right candidate for her circle’s representation. Seeing her to the seat successfully would be the challenge.

Hence Vyrania, a woman nearly the stuff of legend. She was older than Dorian’s father, but had never once removed her fingers from the pulse of the nation and her attentions had lit upon Cassius and what he might offer.

“The south has done many things rather well of late,” Cassius offered.

“If you speak of the Inquisition, Cassius, you’ll hardly find that a popular opinion in the walls of the Senate.” Vyrania drummed her fingers against her upper arm, thoughtful. “Though I would not disagree with you. The stability the Inquisitor has managed to carve out of the dogpile of the south is laudable indeed, if theologically… questionable.”

“Questionable as their theology may be, their methods had brought great success. But you’re right, of course, dearest Vyrania. If I make my admiration for the Inquisition too obvious, I risk alienating the more moderate of the Magisterium – precisely the votes we’ll need if we’re to push through any serious legislative measures.” Cassius reached out, placed a hand on Aurelia’s sloped shoulder. “Besides,” and here he spared the girl a warm smile, “we need first to sway the mages of Aurelia’s circle, so that we might see her take Augustus’s seat and bring a much-needed breath of fresh air to the Senate.”

“And so it is that we must convince Laetitia Cautens that there are worse things in the world than voting for one or two changes to policy,” Dorian said, drawing the conversation back on point. Aurelia was certainly the first step, but it was the larger picture that required their focus. “She must also be convinced that retreating in the _other_ direction and into the arms of Gratian and his ilk is a far less desirable option. Not that convincing any woman of the undesirability of being in Gratian’s embrace should be particularly challenging.”

It was, of course, not nearly as simple as that: he had sat with Cassius for hours, endlessly turning over the particular cant of the new political landscape in Tevinter. How best to leave the old ways of thinking – betrayal and back-stabbing, the expansion of empire, the continuation of outmoded institutions like slavery – in the dust, and to bring the Senate into the modern age, in which innovation, concord, and genuine progress were key.

All that, without alienating those who rested firmly in the middle, who had one foot in, say, the slave trade, and the other in important research and innovation. Who wanted to take the war to Par Vollen, but also sought to make lasting peace with the south.

Everyone had priorities and they never aligned quite so neatly as one might hope.

The conversation moved on, Vyrania offering suggestions on who within Aurelia’s circle might be persuaded to vote for her as official representative, and by what means that persuasion might best occur. Dorian glanced out the window to the dark gardens outside. The air had cooled now and was almost sweet with the smell of distant blossoms, as refreshing as a clear spring.

But far more civilized and less prone to get one sopping wet when one stepped on a mossy stone and found one’s self sat, suddenly, in the midst of it. With a particular elf trying valiantly not to laugh but failing completely in that venture.

He spared a moment to think of Talen, who may have killed someone tonight.

An odd thought, to hope his lover had murdered someone. But then a busy Talen was a contented Talen, with fewer moments to spend thinking about Minrathous, or Tevinter, or what it meant to play this little game here with Dorian. If he focused more on death and less on, well, his _emotions_ , they’d both be the better for it.

Not advice one would often have cause to give, but, then, Dorian and Talen were hardly just anyone.

“If I might steal Master Pavus from you for a moment,” Cassius said, and Dorian’s ears perked up at the mention of his own name, as they always did, “We ought to head downstairs to do a little politicking, and perhaps a small amount of scheming.”

“Oh, I _have_ missed the scheming,” said Dorian, as Cassius’s hand rested, warm, against the bare skin of his arm. With murmured pleasantries, they left Aurelia under Vyrania’s guidance, the older woman no doubt preparing to school the younger in the finer and perhaps slightly more grisly nuances of ensuring her success in the upcoming election.

“I’m fortunate indeed to have Vyrania,” Cassius said, voice low as they slipped down a back staircase and made their way toward the main hall.

He was right. Vyrania was a woman of no small power and influence and had managed to maintain her seat despite her remarkably liberal politics. Something about a woman who thought that slavery ought to be abolished but who could gut a whole row of men with a cleverly placed spell made her a remarkable and formidable ally.

“A gem of a woman, as is your Aurelia – though she’ll need hardening, I think, should she stand a chance without you serving as bodyguard.” They passed through the back reception room, another smaller room filled with over-sized portraits of all of Vyrania’s ancient relatives, stretching back so far as to posit links to some of the earliest Archons, and into the main hallway. The room, large and resplendent, was overlooked by the upper balcony, now cordoned off to restrict those who might search through the house’s private quarters for worthwhile blackmail material.

Not that anyone with a thimbleful of self-preservation would try to threaten Vyrania. The last woman who’d tried had been found in her house, turned nearly inside out.

“You know,” said Dorian, the perfumed heat of the room reminding him of his younger days, when he would stand at such parties, hating every single moment but unable to leave because of obligation to the great House of Pavus, “I’ll admit to being more than a little disappointed that Gratian hasn’t just faded into oblivion in these years. I was sure a man quite so dull would simply… bore himself to death. To return and find him rather a leader in the Magisterium – such a shame. I’d had such _hopes_ , Cassius.”

Cassius laughed, then. The candlelight that made the hall bright and warm glinted off the bronze of his hair. “Hopes that may yet be fulfilled. Should we succeed in our appointments, his ugly little faction will all but wither away, a blighted stem cut from a tree.”

If only it was that simple. But Dorian had known Gratian for many years, much to his ongoing frustration. The man may have been every inch a backward dullard, but he was nothing if not doggedly persistent.

It was enough to kindle a little flame of fury, in remembrance of old wounds, inside of his chest, and that was enough of a fire to set Dorian’s mind firmly to purpose: see Gratian weakened, see Cassius strengthened, and the Senate transformed from a dysfunctional, back-stabbing institution into a political force that could reshape Tevinter.

Dorian already knew the extent to which one man could change nations. He hoped that hundreds of the best minds Tevinter offered could, under the right leadership and with the right frame of mind, do half as much.

“Surely there are others to whom we must speak tonight,” Dorian finally offered, wrenching his thoughts back to this particular party and this particular night. As easy as climbing back on a horse, navigating these social and political currents; he’d wondered if he might recollect all of the finer details, as underused as his skills had been in the south, but found, much to his pleasure, that he’d indeed grown _better_ at cutting through the pretentions and fawning overtures to bend minds to his own purpose. It was far easier at stomaching the simpering lies, now that he had, at his core, an unyielding steel.

Who might have imagined that falling in with the Inquisition might do that for him? That running from his homeland might make him better than those who had stayed?

“I should think. I’ve yet to introduce you to several of the key moderates. Laetitia hasn’t come tonight. I might be upset, except that it’s best, I think, that we meet with several of her underlings first – gain a sense of the lay of the land before planning our attack. So it is those individuals I think we’d best seek out, and perhaps a few of my less guaranteed votes.” A smile, then, Cassius’s eyes bright. “I hope to _impress_ them into line. You are, you know, rather impressive.”

“So I’ve been told,” Dorian said. “And I’ve not yet had cause to disagree.”

Between the flattery and the politicking, it was, all in all, an excellent party, and a superb entrance back into the upper echelons of Minrathous.

And yet Dorian was wearying of this, longing, already, for bed. Wishing to see his lover, to sink into sleep, and to forget, for a moment, of the dizzying spirals of ideology, allegiances, secrets, influence, persuasion. He may have been rather good at all of it, but it did leave him worn.

_Maker’s breath, I may be getting old_ , he thought distantly. Then, swiftly, _No. How foolish_. He would, after all, forever be young and beautiful. There was simply no alternative.

Cassius caught sight of someone-or-other across the room, conversing with another someone who was also of little importance but could, Cassius murmured in a low tone before the two mages approached, perhaps be key to persuading someone a little more important and a great deal more interesting.

Just as introductions were made, Dorian putting on his absolutely most charming smile and launching in on a little tirade about the barren wastelands of the south and the cities wholly lacking in anything resembling _culture_ , they heard a scream, shrill, from upstairs.

All of the heads in the great hall twisted, and then –

A body plunged over the railing, gouts of thick blood misting the air behind it. The corpse fell with a leaden sound on the white tiles, limbs flopping to rest with a wet, too-loud sound in the sudden, stiff silence. Blood, still hot and red as the wine they were all drinking, sputtered out from the neck, which lacked a head, and spattered the bottoms of robes and suede boots. A man gasped.

A moment passed, of utter silence, ropey intestines sliding across the floor in the wet pool of blood, and then a second, sharper gasp, as the head followed the body over the railing of the upper balcony. It made a wet crack against the floor, as the skull gave way and crumpled on one side, as might a soft-boiled egg.

The sodden skull rolled, through viscera and blood, toward Dorian and Cassius.

Dorian realized, with a numb shock, that he recognized the man. Theophile Adratus, whom Dorian had just met that evening – one of Cassius’s most enthusiastic supporters, if somewhat sly – but very much breathing and with his head still attached to his shoulders when they’d spoken but an hour ago.

The head continued its slow slide toward them, edging nearer and nearer as a man, to Dorian’s left, slumped to the ground, fainted. It continued its gradual slide toward the horrified crowd until Cassius raised his foot and caught it, toe pressed up against the bridge of Theophile’s nose, between open, blood-shot eyes, and the crumbled curve of his half-shattered forehead.

“Well,” Cassius said distantly, but the syllable sounded brittle, as though spoken from behind a porcelain mask. “How terribly _gauche_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This would not be at all possible without my truly exceptional and absolutely _genius_ beta, [spycaptain](http://spycaptain.tumblr.com/), who has not only has guided me through plotting, character development, and the nuances of story-telling and writing with great kindness, enthusiasm, and insight, but also promised to send in a search team if I got trapped by the blizzard that swallowed up my province this week. She is actually the greatest -- **really** \-- and I have to, I don't know, sacrifice some small furry thing to the altar of the internet gods for sending her to me.
> 
> All that being said, any complete and total fuck-ups are certainly my own and all of the wretched abuses of commas are _definitely_ mine.
> 
> And, hey, you reading this! If you're keen, please feel welcome to follow me on [tumblr](http://mstigergun.tumblr.com/), to leave a comment (I promise I will reply and you will also make my day!), or to get in touch via your preferred method. Now accepting owls.


	3. Who Had Been Slaves Were Now Free

**Chapter 3: Who Had Been Slaves Were Now Free**

_At Shartan's word, the sky_  
 _Grew black with arrows._  
 _At Our Lady's, ten thousand swords_  
 _Rang from their sheaths,_  
 _A great hymn rose over Valarian Fields gladly proclaiming:_  
 _Those who had been slaves were now free._  
 _(Shartan 10:1, Dissonant Verse)_

*****

“I don’t suppose,” said Dorian, as Talen edged back in the door to the suite with the tray of tea and fruit and fine pastries that the household servants had left outside the door as instructed, “that you decapitated anyone last night.”

Talen huffed a little laugh underneath his breath. Right. A typical line of questioning in Tevinter. He pushed the door shut with his heel and then maneuvered to the back of the suite, where Dorian remained in bed. Morning sunlight poured in through the window, as rich as molten gold. Dorian had gotten in late last night, even later than Talen, and had promptly gone to bed – but only after he chided Talen for having tucked himself away in the tiny sliver of space reserved for a personal slave.

_I said you couldn’t_ appear _to be sharing my bed_ , Dorian had said, leaning against the doorframe that led to the cramped space tucked behind the curve of what may have been a staircase to the hotel’s minaret, _but I’ll be very cross if you make that appearance a reality. We’ve locked the door. Now come – I’ve had a dreadfully long and rather messy evening and you’re the only possible balm to my weariness_.

Waking up in the morning, sunlight hot across his skin, face pressed to the perfect plane of his lover’s back, had done a great deal to blot out the lingering remains of last night’s unease. Perhaps Tevinter wasn’t so bad if he could spend every morning like this – no reports from his advisors that needed reading, no list of meetings to prepare for, no immediate crises requiring resolution.

Just Dorian and golden sunlight and a breakfast tray left outside the door.

Talen settled the mahogany platter on the end of the bed, plucking a ruby red fruit from the ornate display. Its flesh was puckered at one end, its skin perfectly smooth. “What’s _this_?” he asked, turning the fruit over in his palms.

“A pomegranate – you eat the seeds. See,” and Dorian stretched, took it from Talen’s curious grip, and, using the little curved knife from the tray, sliced a circle around the top. He peeled away the outer skin, revealing pockets of bright red seeds nestled against walls of white flesh, like beads cut from ruby against satin. With a series of economical movements, Dorian drew the blade down each of the segments, splitting the whole fruit in his hands. The seeds, wet and glistening, stayed firmly in place. “Here.”

“You just eat these?” Talen plucked one out, and was surprised to find that it wasn’t nearly as wet as it looked.

“Quite,” said Dorian, delicately picking at some himself.

So Talen followed suit. A pleasant enough fruit, if rather peculiar: the seeds were softer than he’d expected, giving way in a tart little burst of flavour on his tongue. “To answer your question,” he said finally, after he’d poured the aromatic tea and folded himself up in the bed next to Dorian, “no, I didn’t decapitate anyone last night. I did have a job, but it was a fair bit neater than that. Besides, I don’t have my Inquisitorial sword: lopping a head off without it would feel wrong and be a sight more challenging than I’d like to admit. I’m the dagger type, so slit throats and blade-through-the-heart is more in keeping with my skill set.”

Dorian chose an apricot from the tray. “I rather thought as much. The man was gutted as well, and I’ve always thought you significantly more refined than all that for all the whispers about _Dalish savagery_.”

A frown creased Talen’s face. Outside, some distant breeze rustled the leaves of the short olive tree secured neatly within the inner courtyard. “I’m sorry. Did you just say that someone was decapitated and _gutted_ at the party last night?”

“Oh, yes. Quite the piece of drama. We’re usually a great deal more subtle about the whole thing. Such a display is considered rather vulgar.” He split the apricot, plucked out the tidy little pit, and ate one half. “And then a second body was found at the very back of the gardens – some minor paper-pusher from the Publicanum, though he died in a much less grisly manner. Much more in keeping with the sorts of deaths deemed appropriate for parties.”

If Talen felt for the briefest moment a swelling of pride, he supposed he could forgive himself. However, this other death –

“Was it someone you knew, the one who’d been decapitated?”

Dorian waved a hand. His hair, usually so carefully styled, was still crumpled from bed. Softened. Talen reached out thoughtlessly to touch his lover’s temple, right where his pulse beat beneath his skin. “Hardly,” Dorian said. “He was a magister of relatively minor importance, although a vocal supporter of Cassius. Which means that today will be spent not only traipsing about the city meeting with the important few who weren’t at last night’s gathering, but also trying to determine who selected dear Magister Adratus for such a gruesome death. And why, naturally.”

“Naturally,” repeated Talen. His thumb brushed the curve of Dorian’s cheekbone, his heart a deep and warm ache behind his rib cage. “You’ll be careful, though.”

Dorian shot him a look. Talen’s thumb stilled.

A sigh, unbidden, loosed from his throat. Nothing could be easy, even in these quiet and relatively early morning hours – not here in Tevinter and not with Dorian.

But some things needed saying, even if they made Dorian slightly prickly and more than a little brusque. “ _Ma’arlath, ma vhenan_ ,” Talen said, because if he didn’t the ache in his heart might never go away. “I love you.”

“As I’m well aware,” said Dorian, pulling back. He stood, stretched. "And should love be enough to right all the wrongs of the world, I would pronounce our work here done, pack our bags, and march promptly back to Skyhold. Sadly, wishes do not reality make, so here we are: I've a dreadfully long day of meetings to attend and, for that, I must forsake the pleasure of your company."

Always the same.

Talen turned aside, picking at the grapes, as Dorian launched into the long list of things he needed to accomplish today. Where he’d be headed and with whom and to what end. What Cassius thought of this person or some other person who’d married so-and-so – names to which Talen could attach no significance. All the while, Talen turned over the seed of hurt at his core, the one tainted by last night’s jealousy and roused again by Dorian’s predictable deflection.

A feeling he did not want to dwell on, this deep pulling, like the sea turned to low tide around his feet. Dorian, here in Tevinter; Dorian, with inconstant patience for – or need of – his lover. Dorian, for whom Talen may have been yet just another complication, an irritation.

_No_ , he reminded himself. _Stop_. All of that had more to do with his past than it had to do with Dorian and it was unfair for Talen to muddle the two. However much part of him insisted that they _were_ tied up together.

Presently he had things to take care of, just as Dorian did.

He took a long drink of the tea, now cooled, and then stood to get ready. “I’m off to the Society. They’ve asked me to do a bit of scouting ahead of one of their agents in the harbour-side market. The,” he searched his mind for the name, the syllables unfamiliar on his tongue, “ _Kaladikapi Market_? The stalls change depending on who has a ship in at the moment and the agent needs to know lines of sight before she starts her job. Being but one of many nameless elves, Proxima thinks me inconspicuous enough for the task.”

“Ah, good,” said Dorian breezily, peering through the clothes he’d brought with a mind no doubt fully turned to the day ahead and all its meetings and nuance and subtext. “Though –” His hands paused on the edge of a glorious silver and green robe, “Should you happen to be around the amphitheatre in the Forum, say after the University’s noon bell, there is a charming little market I think you’d be quite enamoured of. One that has not nearly so many dead fish nor those for whom _bathing_ is but an annual experience.”

“Oh?” Talen watched the line of Dorian’s back. “And are you sending me there on my own, or will you be around to show me the wonders of your nation?”

“Deprive you of the blessing of my company? I hardly think so.” A bright smile, then, tossed over his shoulder as he might throw a token to a favoured suitor. Talen, though, was hungry for even the smallest morsels.

Dorian continued, back to being choosy about colour palettes. “I’ve some digging that needs doing at the University library this morning before my dance card is filled with meetings all across the city. At last, a decent catalogue! You’ve _no idea_ the relief. How I made do with your paltry little collection is utterly beyond me and, indeed, a testament to my ingenuity. But with all the world’s finest thought at my fingertips once again, I may find myself lost in genuine _scholarship_ and forget to come up for air. A break would be most welcome.”

“Alright,” said Talen, warmed, the small hurts of the morning leached from his thoughts. “I’ll be there.”

Perhaps, he thought, Dorian did want to share Minrathous with him, if in small and controlled slivers. So long as he wasn’t always shuttered away in _The Dragon’s Heart_ , carefully partitioned from anything and everything Dorian tended to in the city, he wouldn’t feel so –

Adrift. Perhaps _forgotten_.

He dressed quickly, leaving Dorian still torn between two outfits. So much easier to dress for death than for parties.

The inside of the hotel was cool and dark. Talen moved silently through the grand rooms and to the street outside, feet tracing the route that almost felt familiar – across the city, past looming gates and buzzing crowds, across the delicate bridges that spanned canals designed for the easy transportation of goods from the harbour to the wealthiest, highest neighbourhoods. When he reached the Society house, the heat of the day had already dampened his skin, and it yet remained mid-morning. Hours still to go before the sun reached its cruel zenith, from which it beat down mercilessly and denied even meagre shade to the citizens of the city.

He would meet with Proxima and her agent, receive his assignment, and travel down to the Kaladikapi Market, with its haphazard stalls laden with whatever goods came through Antiva or the Free Marches or even Ferelden. From there, job completed, he would climb back to the lofty heights of Minrathous, where his lover tried in meetings and amid books to make sense of the tangle of politics in this place. He would gladly walk the whole damned place, from the lowest of lows to the greatest peaks, if it won him a few moments of Dorian’s time and a piece of his past here.

*****

The days slipped by and they fell into an almost easy routine.

Quiet mornings with tea and fruit and sometimes flat, little pastries, so golden and flaky that they practically _melted_ in Talen’s mouth, before each of them had to go about their respective business. Dorian attended seemingly endless meetings – how exactly there could be so many people to meet or what these meetings could be accomplishing when it seemed that the list of _people-to-sway_ only ever grew longer were questions entirely beyond Talen’s knowledge.

While Dorian politicked, Talen was finally able to _stop_ worrying about diplomacy and alliances and endlessly complex sociopolitical systems. Instead, he travelled to each and every corner of Minrathous on Society business. Often bloody, sometimes risky, but never morally complicated in the way he was accustomed to. Easier to be the blade in the dark than the mind deciding when, and where, it should fall.

It paid well, the work they had him doing. It even had the benefit of improving his Tevene. He slipped into locked rooms in the University to collect the secrets of obscure research sought by a competing scholar, carefully avoiding the astute eyes of the mages completing research in one of the endless, grand rooms that made up the largest building on the campus. He often had call to skulk around at parties or dinners, waiting for key persons to slip away to pull them into shadowed recesses and usher them to darkness.

All the while, he heard endlessly of Magister Niteo and Dorian Pavus. “But Seheron remains a problem, however much Cassius would like to ignore it,” said a gaudily-dressed woman one evening. Talen waited, growing increasingly frustrated and sick on the foul perfume that clouded the rooms, for a man he’d been asked to track after he left the party – a man who was taking aeons to finish his damned drink and head out.

“Seheron is a dreadful place,” said another. “I’m not sorry to be rid of it.”

“Rather. But close enough for concern.” A third, this one with shrewd eyes, her light hair piled up on her head. She dressed more simply than her peers, an austere finery where expense was denoted by the quality of the fabric and workmanship rather than the number of buckles or jewels one could fit on a robe and still manage to walk. “A treaty, perhaps, with Par Vollen.”

The first barked a laugh. “The Inquisition denied Par Vollen an alliance; I hardly think Cassius’s _advisor_ will recommend that course of action, Laetitia.”

“You’re bitter, Livia,” said the woman who favoured treaty, her smile growing teeth. A large ring tapped against her fluted glass, a thoughtless, irritated tell. “You’ve never liked Dorian Pavus, not even when you were in line to be his wife.”

“I consider that an arrow neatly dodged, thank you.”

Another night, he happened to be waiting to dispatch of a Soporati merchant who’d wormed her way into a party by blackmailing an Altus – about as thick a move as one could make, considering that Altus were fatted with wealth and had no issue with eliminating any threats to their reputation. Before Talen could isolate his target, however, the rather routine mission splintered before him into unfamiliar shapes: screams split the air, the musicians drawing to a sudden stop.

A woman had been found holding her head in her lap, her body split from throat to stomach. A string of pearls still hung, bloodied, around the remaining stump of her neck.

It was just the sort of murder Dorian had seen the end result of, that first night in Minrathous. Knowing Tevinter, it would likely be the start of a larger pattern.

If only there hadn’t been so many horrified party-goers around, Talen might have gotten a closer look to piece together a picture of the sort of patron who would hire someone for this type of murder.

Or the assassin who enjoyed the drama of his or her profession a little _too_ much. Perhaps an even more worrying thought.

The days continued to pass; dead magisters accumulated in kind. The husband of Magister Hydrion had been eviscerated in a market near the University. The daughter of another magister, but a few days from her mother’s death and her subsequent ascension to the Magisterium, was found hanging in a theatre’s balcony later than same week. She’d been positioned so that her hands rested stiffly over her heart, ribs cracked open to expose those organs that still sagged wetly inside of her corpse. At least her head had remained fastened to her body. One did need a head to be hanged properly.

The murders were unusual enough in their brutality and … theatre. A country like Tevinter, in which deaths were common as paupers, had codes: assassins completed murders neatly to indicate that the mark wasn’t worth the effort of a theatrical death. Duels, though rather uncommon, accounted for the Tevinter flair for the dramatic. They were public, flashy, and absolutely vicious. Talen had read about them, but never witnessed one – and with good cause. Only extremely serious conflicts, whose resolution would fundamentally shift the dynamics of the Altus social circles and the Imperial Senate, ever resulted in duels, and that sort of genuine clawing for power would only resume once the Senate was back in session and the Archon returned to Minrathous.

These murders were neither one thing nor the other. They were clearly assassinations, but spoke of all the theatre of public duels; they proclaimed of the unworthiness of the victims, who did not warrant the spectacle of a mage’s duel, and invoked that very same theatre in how their corpses were presented.

It seemed that there was nothing else of which the Altus mages could speak. It took a great deal to wrest their attention away from the perpetually shifting balance of power and prestige in Minrathous, but this string of grisly murders turned every conversation toward the underlying question: _why_.

“It’s growing wearisome,” Dorian said one early morning, having just arrived back at the hotel as the sun began to rise in the distance.

For the first time, Talen thought he could see shadows forming under his lover’s eyes, deep enough that they had drained some of the light from his gaze.

When they’d been chasing Corypheus, frantic in their effort to stop a would-be god, Dorian may have been tired, but he’d never seemed worn. Even after he had stayed up through all hours of the night to find some crucial piece of information or had exhausted his magic down to the very last spark to kill yet _another_ demon so they might close yet _another_ rift, Dorian stood… tall. Weary but not defeated. More often than not, when the day had concluded and they returned to wherever they were staying – a muddy little campsite on the Storm Coast or a shabby village in Emprise du Lion – Dorian swanned about, as quick with quips and as generous with his smile as always. Even when he was tired, Dorian put on a show. He refused to let the onslaught of brutality after brutality defeat him. True, he might complain the whole while about the cold or the damp or the barbaric excuse for a bed he was expected to avail himself of, but Dorian had never seemed… worn. Well and truly _beaten down_ by the weight of the world. Not until now.

Of course Dorian meant that the murders were becoming a burden, but Talen had overheard enough to know that he and Cassius were having difficulty swaying a core group of magisters. Their challenges were made even more significant by the Archon’s journey to Carastes, where he planned to attend a series of talks with important trading partners from Rivain and Antiva. The promise of a grand ball, replete with _dancing slaves_ and _Rivaini swordplay_ and perhaps even a _trained giant_ , had been enough to draw many magisters from Minrathous to attend. And the string of ugly murders hadn’t exactly endeared this year’s summer season to those same magisters either.

“So very unpleasant,” one man had said while Talen listened from the shadows. “Not at all what one thinks of when spending the summer months in the city. We expect subtlety, not brutishness! Or, at least, brutishness only when done with appropriate theatre and at appropriate time and place. Finding a woman gutted does tend to ruin dinner parties.”

Things were not unfolding as Dorian had hoped. Even though his lover tried to keep all of those struggles neatly locked away, Talen understood enough of Minrathous and enough of the Magisterium to see that the whole thing had been a mess from start to finish.

“Is there anything I can do anything to help?” Talen offered. He set down the letter he’d been writing to Josie – the sort of thing he’d promised to send weekly, and ensured was heavily edited to avoid rousing concern.

Dorian sighed, a long, loud sound. He leaned against the wall by the door, gray light of the morning muting the room to stark tones. “Unless your Tevene has drastically improved and you’ve had time to learn our script, alas, no. I’ve more research to complete into the connections between the victims, and a luncheon with three of Laetitia’s underlings, and then a long list of letters to write to win support from several key figures who’ve retreated to their country estates in the wake of – _everything_.”

Everything: brutal murders, endless politicking, and expectations for a certain perpetual performance.

Talen stoppered the ink and drew to Dorian’s side. “All of it will keep to tomorrow,” he said, voice soft. A hand to his lover’s wrist, which felt fragile and thin underneath his palm. Something hot flared in his blood: the need to protect, to guard, to tear at the world until it became kinder again. There was only so much Talen could do for Dorian – only so much Dorian would _allow_ him to do – but he may be permitted this small thing: to usher his lover to bed, to make these muted, early dawn hours their own. “You need to rest, Dorian.”

“There is no rest for the wicked,” said his lover. The ghost of a smile, but even Dorian must have felt how diluted the expression was. Another sigh, as he rotated his wrist to brush a thumb against Talen’s palm, seeking – something. Warmth, comfort, a moment to forget, perhaps.

“Enough,” said Talen. “To bed.” And he pulled Dorian back through the suite, sitting him on the side of the bed as he diligently undid each and every fancy little buckle on Dorian’s robes. The air was cool, the room gray around them. Peaceful, almost, in the muted, muffled way that early mornings could be.

Once Dorian was settled into bed, Talen pulled his own clothes off and nestled close to Dorian, drawing the man’s head to rest on his shoulder, fingers tracing patterns across the back of his head, the soft skin of his neck.

Perhaps because Dorian was so tired, he allowed it, falling asleep with his cheek pressed against Talen’s shoulder, one arm wrapped firmly and securely across Talen’s chest, fingers digging into his ribs. As he might hold onto something he was desperately afraid of losing. As if holding on for life.

If Talen couldn’t fix this for Dorian, if he couldn’t wade in and forcibly _make_ Tevinter the nation Dorian wanted it to be, he would certainly be the support to keep his lover upright long enough to see this whole thing to its end. To whatever would be the end of this for Dorian, whether in success or in failure. And then, finally, they might head home.

How badly he wanted to go home. How badly he wanted Dorian to say he wanted to go home.

But, despite Dorian’s growing weariness, Talen doubted that his lover felt the same way. Indeed, even if he did have even a moment of longing for Skyhold, he would never stoop so low as to admit it. As if to prove the point, when they finally woke the next morning, Dorian was back to his usual self: animated, self-assured, with a million and one things to do and not nearly enough time in which to accomplish them.

They parted ways with Dorian hurrying off to Cassius’s estate and Talen off to kill a Laetans man who’d tried to weasel his way out of a very beneficial engagement. Just as Talen turned to slip through the door, Dorian caught his wrist and held it, briefly, an echo of last night’s quiet touch. “I may be late again tonight,” he said. “Don’t feel the need to wait up.”

Talen frowned, as Dorian dropped his wrist to instead flick imaginary dust from the sleeves of his robe. “No?”

“Duty calls, my dear, and it’s rather difficult to concentrate on the minutiae of political maneuvering when one is worried about who might be waiting at home. Who might be _fretting_ away all the hours of the night.” A smile, but it looked painted on, a little lie meant to pretty things up. “Besides, I can’t have you wearied while you’re traipsing about murdering people now, can I? You’ve a reputation to uphold and I, by proxy, a dangerous compatriot to keep as a ward against threats to my person. Suppose you should start yawning when I need you to be _intimidating_? Why, there’d be someone trying to leap to our balcony and hide behind the grapes that very evening.”

The familiar ache in Talen’s heart throbbed, like puffed skin where infection had taken hold. Each moment, each heartbeat, was thick with old hurt and its new, insistent echo. They had such little time together and Dorian wanted less. Wanted fewer late nights spent tucked against one another, fewer gray mornings when Talen might finally touch Dorian as he wanted to, Dorian’s resolve softened by long days and the quiet solitude of dawn.

He nodded, though, said something so banal and unthinkingly affirmative that he forgot it the moment it passed his lips. And then Talen retreated into the city beyond. Minrathous, which had once been utterly foreign from top to bottom, now held him in an embrace both familiar and welcoming, if always undergirded with danger. It was easy to spend hours in the city on one job or another, discovering the secrets of one neighbourhood while waiting to head to another after an unsuspecting target. Listening to the chattering in Tevene and expanding his vocabulary, or else rattling off verb conjugations while he sat in a disused and forgotten alleyway, hiding from the sun and the dust and the suspicious stares of the locals.

This job, with the Laetans man who’d backtracked on his engagement, was particularly easy. Talen found his target and slit his throat in a dark little alleyway, tidily draining his blood into a grate that linked to a nearby canal. At the request of his patron, he left the body near the fountain where the man had first promised his hand to the girl in question. The engagement ring was tucked neatly in his upturned palm.

A little obvious, Talen thought, but no one would be particularly bothered. She’d reported the ring missing a week hence and, besides, the city guards knew better than to involve themselves in the affairs of the Society of the Black Orchid. Or in what mages did between themselves. Murder was practically an institution in Tevinter, after all.

He made it back to _The Dragon’s Heart_ while the moon still hung close to the horizon. An early evening for him and one which he would spend _not_ waiting for Dorian. Instead, he would continue his letter to Josie. Perhaps he might see if one of the slaves could help him with his Tevene. They’d been pleasant enough when he’d asked for help before, although it had still taken a word from Petra to convince the others he’d come to know – Miklos and Trio – to feel comfortable correcting his grammar. Since then, he’d found them eager to ensure his Tevene was up to scratch. Or, rather, slightly _less_ embarrassing.

While he’d first felt uneasy even asking for their help, Miklos and Trio were thrilled to help. Better to offer help with conversational Tevene, he thought, than being asked to tend to him in other ways. And at least he’d bothered to learn their names, which was more than he could say for the other patrons staying in the hotel at the moment.

Talen entered through the front door, sparing a smile for Miklos, who was on duty by the door tonight. Always, a slave stood in wait at the entrance for whatever guest might arrive and need help. He headed past the columned room with its impractical water feature – why anyone would put a water feature _inside_ of a house, where it would do nothing but need constant cleaning and serve as a hazard, was beyond him – and back through the smaller reception room that overlooked the courtyard.

“Your mage is in, though he’s brought another man back with him,” said a low voice from the open, deep windowsill that led into the back courtyard, with its olive tree and hissing fountain and shadowed recesses. Talen stopped short, blinking in the dark. “I thought you might wish to know before finding out yourself.”

The son of the Antivan merchant prince, Esidor Savio, to whom Talen had spoken a handful of times since he’d taken residence on the second floor of the hotel. He spoke with an accent so perfectly reminiscent of Josie’s that Talen had always found himself put at ease for a moment or two before he recollected the very real dangers anyone and everyone posed in Minrathous. Josie would have been the first to warn Talen against the man, a viper travelled to Minrathous to gain assets for his father’s perpetual struggle against the other wealthy merchant princes in Antiva – a bloodless, yet brutal, struggle for favour and prestige.

Knowing all of this, Talen had always been careful to remain as cloaked in obfuscations as was possible without going so far as to sound rude. A game he’d grown rather good at while at the helm of the Inquisition: diplomacy was as often what went unsaid as what thoughts were given voice and in what manner.

Talen paused at the bottom of the staircase that would lead him to Dorian. “He’s not _mine_ ,” he clarified, words itching against his throat. “Something of which you’re well aware.”

Of course, that Talen did feel a deep, dark flicker of jealousy was beside the point, as was the weariness with which he thought of meeting Cassius for the first time – a magister he wanted to somehow impress, all while masquerading as a blade-for-hire. A man who’d so dazzled Dorian, who positively _shone_ at every gathering at which Talen had glimpsed him even in the distance, standing a little too close to his lover’s side.

Jealousy was an ugly feeling that Talen would like to be wholly unfamiliar with, but, if he couldn’t bleed it from himself, if he couldn’t somehow stop himself from feeling it, he could certainly do his best to mask its presence.

“Is that what he tells you to say? That you’re but companions?” A laugh, and Esidor pushed himself up, features lined by the violet light streaming from the tiny lantern hung outside the window.

A man who thought he knew everything, but who knew absolutely _nothing_. Talen felt himself bristling despite his best efforts to remain calm, like a cat whose tail was the target of some mindless child’s pawing.

“He tells me to say nothing,” the words thinner and angrier than he’d intended. “I’m afraid you mischaracterize our relationship – a simple enough mistake, I’m sure, for those with certain preoccupations.” Talen turned, truly, to face the man, setting his shoulders to a straight line. For Dorian’s sake and the sake of the work he did with Niteo, this was a clarification worth making, however much Talen hated the feel of giving voice to this particular set of lies. However much reiterating them made him feel sick, a slow, roiling blackness in his gut.

“Do I?” A roguish smirk. “And tell me, what _preoccupations_ do you imagine me to have, Lord Sabrae?”

Talen was aware, suddenly, that drying blood flecked the front of his clothes, that he must look every inch the assassin. An appearance, a _truth_ , he could take advantage of. He fixed the man with a dark stare.

“Ah, so _serious_ , so very much like one of our Crows,” breathed the son of the merchant prince, who was too handsome by half. “Very well: let me spill my heart to you, Lord Sabrae.” He paused for effect, utterly transparent, and then continued. “It seems terribly unjust that a man quite as exquisite as you has been relegated to the shadows. There, I’ve said it; there can be no retreat now.”

Unbidden, Talen felt heat prickle the skin along his throat, his shoulders slip a little from their straight line. _Exquisite_?

“Were I fortunate enough to be your lover – ” Esidor began.

“Stop,” said Talen, his voice suddenly and unaccountably raw. At his sides, his knuckles whitened, hands clenching into dangerous shapes, even as heat rose to his cheeks. “A joke in poor taste, Esidor.”

The man scoffed and moved closer in the dark little room with its dim and colourful lights, close enough that he might reach out and touch Talen. Talen felt the his skin prickle. Should the man try anything, he would snap each and every one of his fingers.

“Not a joke at all!” said the Antivan. “And should you truly be unattached to Master Pavus, I can see of no reason why you need turn aside. I’d heard talk of you before we first met: a skilled assassin who had worked with the Inquisition, now plying his trade in Minrathous. To finally meet you and find you so perfectly and terribly beautiful!” He sighed, then, artfully, shoulder angling a little closer. Talen realized distantly that his own breath had grown uneven. “I must give voice to my heart, _blade in the dark_ , else I should never again rest peacefully. Ah, and you would love Antiva: we are not nearly so backward as Tevinter, and you would receive the admiration you are due. I would not hide you away.”

Talen watched the man, thoughts beating a frantic path through his mind. What was his angle, Esidor? Talen had never been so –

_Pursued_. Sought after with such fervour. Or with such poetry, however insipid.

Certainly, then, a joke, or else a pursuit with ulterior motive.

“You said – You’d _heard_ of me before arriving here?” His mind fastened on that little turn of phrase within the rest of Esidor’s monologue. The least embarrassing admission and the most worrisome.

“Why, yes,” said Esidore, a crooked smile teasing his lips. “An old trading partner of my father’s lives outside of the city. I stayed with him for a week before taking room here. Your name was on many tongues, Lord Sabrae – the elf-assassin who worked for the Inquisition and is now seen wandering town with Dorian Pavus? Certainly not the sort of man one overlooks, not in Minrathous.”

That could pose a problem. Talen had hoped his story would suffice to divert attention; he hadn’t wanted to begin _attracting_ it. To be someone of whom others took note put his work for Proxima in serious jeopardy. Recognition would certainly cause trouble for Falon, whose name was nothing but death and whose work required a certain of anonymity. The ability to melt into shadows and crowds unnoticed.

There were larger concerns, however, which flashed through his mind in rapid succession. Should something go wrong with one of his contracts and his affiliation to the Inquisition – this _character’s_ affiliation – bear the brunt of the focus, it could cause trouble for Talen-the-Inquisitor. It could _certainly_ be an issue for his ambassador, who’d reluctantly agreed to his leave of absence on the condition that he be extraordinarily careful to not cause any major incident that might throw their work into tumult.

Esidor continued, unconcerned with the troubled silence into which Talen had retreated. “You did not think such loveliness would go unnoticed? A sin if it did and one I would see never committed again.” And then he _did_ reach out, Talen’s head jerking back in surprise as the Antivan’s hand made contact with his arm just above the elbow.

A gentle touch, one that made Talen’s skin crawl. He pulled back, tugging his arm away. “I’ve no desire to go to Antiva,” he said. “And I’ve not said I’m entirely _unattached_.”

He scoffed. “Partially unattached, then! That, we could work on. Spend a night with me first, then decide. Wake unashamed, adored – as you rightly should be.” His hand was back at the spot just above Talen’s elbow, palm too-hot. Esidor’s eyes were endless dark, flashing, as he drew nearer.

“It’s in remarkably poor taste to throw yourself on someone who’s already declined your company.” A man, tall and handsome with coppery hair, descended the stairs.

Esidor straightened and Talen took the moment to yank his arm free, step back so that he had room enough to breathe again.

“Magister Niteo,” and Esidor was, in a moment, the picture of obeisance, polite and proper, although the taut line of his neck suggested it as forced as Talen knew it to be. “I take it you’ve finished with Master Pavus?”

“Our discussions have concluded, yes,” said the man who took up nearly all of Dorian’s waking hours.

Talen looked at him carefully, at his dark eyes, the line of his jaw. His broad shoulders and the power that seemed to hum underneath his skin.

A true leader, the visionary Dorian had left Skyhold to support.

Despite himself, Talen felt something cruel and petty in his heart, but he smoothed it away the instant Niteo turned that bright gaze on him. “We’ll have to speak another time, Lord Sabrae. I’m afraid I have a wife who demands that I spare some of my waking hours for her, and the night grows late. If you haven’t need of me?”

Had someone else spoken the words, or had the tone been softer, Talen might think he was voicing concern. Esidor had, after all, been relentless. But when Niteo spoke, it was without kind intention, his syllables gilded with a trace amount of suspicion. Enough to make his point clear, not enough to be rude.

If Talen thought he could find his way upstairs without being whisked away by Esidor into the man’s bed, Niteo meant. If he didn’t leave Dorian’s side for a trip to Antiva, a pet in a gilded cage. Had Talen’s protests seemed that perfunctory, so very like the momentary struggle of a heroine against her true heart’s desire in one of Cassandra’s books?

Niteo clearly knew more – or suspected more – than Talen had anticipated, if he thought to protect Dorian from Talen’s betrayal. _Falon’s_ betrayal.

Yes, he could manage without the man supervising him.

Talen forced a small smile, tasting something bitter at the back of this throat. “Give my well wishes to your wife, Magister.” Without so much as a spare glance for Esidor, who positively radiated a dark and seething frustration the moment Niteo turned his back, Talen ducked past the magister and made his way upstairs.

Let the Antivan stew in his failure. Although –

_Exquisite_.

By all the gods. That was new. When he’d been much younger in Ansburg, Talen had received his fair share of propositions: _shems_ invariably convinced that, because he was young and an elf, he’d be for sale. Desperate enough to do anything for coin. But, in those instances, he’d been pursued as an object; Esidor pursued him as –

It didn’t matter. He found the man remarkably off-putting, from his unctuous voice to the unparalleled arrogance that masked whatever schemes were rattling around inside his thick skull.

And there was only one Dorian. Everyone else paled in comparison, the whole world darker for the radiance of his lover. Like looking into the sun, and then being expected to be able to see anything worthwhile below.

Talen stopped outside of the door to their suite and took a long breath. Still, his cheeks were warmed, but he had no time to wait for his embarrassment – or whatever else this was – to subside

When he slipped inside, Dorian’s hands were preoccupied with shuffling papers in the reception room. His lover looked up, smiled in a distant and distracted sort of way. A warm enough look, still, to bleed the worry from Talen’s heart. He moved over to the chaise and tucked himself next to Dorian, who spared a small moment to squeeze Talen’s knee.

Whatever fleeting ghost of affection he might permit tonight, so closely on the tails of Cassius’s visit. Always, he withdrew when reminded of where he was and what his obligations here were.

“So, Niteo,” Talen said.

“Ah, yes, the man himself. Did you have a chance to meet him before he ran off?” Dorian’s attention had already refocused on the papers before him, flicking through endless sheets, each crawling with scribbled words and thoughts. All beyond Talen’s understanding, as they were written in Tevene.

“For a moment, hardly long enough to say hello. And I meant to ask –”

He stopped, suddenly unsure. A simple enough question, but one that might act as a key to a lock he would really rather leave fixed firmly in place, not wanting to face that which it held fast. It was this sort of question that so very often started them down a path that led to argument, long, bitter, exhausting.

Talen clamped down the sigh he could feel clawing away inside of him.

“Does he know,” he said finally, resolved to have the truth of it out, “about you?” And, in a softer tone, closer and gentler, “About us?”

Now Dorian’s hands stilled. He spared a brief glance for Talen. “He’s a clever man. I’m sure he’s determined that there may be something between us, _Falon_ , but he’s also tactful enough to not bring it up.”

So that was that, then. Cassius thought Talen – no, _not_ Talen, but this alternate identity he’d shrugged into place – to be Dorian’s lover. And he suspected him of being inconstant. Wonderful.

The sigh found its way out, short and hard. “And the Inquisitor?”

“He’s heard about the Inquisitor’s journey to meet with about as many Dalish clans as there _are_ in Thedas and said that it was a pity that the man had such a _desire to wander_. He was also sure to tell me how fortunate it was that the Inquisitor’s _wanderlust_ freed me to come to Tevinter.” Dorian mouth twisted to one side, an expression both slightly amused and slightly annoyed. “It was a polite enough way to express his condolences for my being left by the wayside without actually saying so many words. I assume he thinks I wouldn’t have left Skyhold were I still the favoured lover of the Inquisitor.”

Talen’s eyebrows shot up. “Favoured lover? Does he have many?”

“Many indeed. The tales I’ve heard circulated at parties! Did you know,” Dorian said, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “that there’s been a _pamphlet_ written about the Inquisitor and his _perverse inclinations_?”

Talen stilled, the smile that had been on his face a moment before sputtering out like a candle under a deluge of dawning horror. “What?”

“Ah, yes. It’s difficult to come by in the Imperium, but I’m doing my very best. Vyrania thinks it originates from an author in Ostwick who’s known to pen this sort of thing. They were several about the Champion of Kirkwall – one particularly popular one involving the Champion and the late Arishok – and it would appear that the Inquisitor can now join those noble ranks. To the best of my knowledge, the document in question details – _details_ being the operative word – how the Inquisitor won the loyalty of his men. There’s the Tevinter mage, the elven apostate, the commander of the Inquisition’s forces, the swarthy dwarf, the Warden warrior, the mercenary qunari…” He ticked off his fingers. “Ah, and the _Champion_ makes an appearance as well. Along with any number of unnamed but very finely formed soldiers and agents.”

“No,” said Talen numbly. “There’s – Someone’s _written_ that?”

“And sold a great many copies!”

Now he had genuine cause to flush, hot and bright, across his cheeks. He tipped his head forward into his hands, taking a long, hard breath. “Andruil take me. An arrow right to the heart, please. You –” A horrified glance up, at the man who looked decidedly too pleased with himself. “ _Dorian_ , you can’t _buy_ that.”

“Why not? I’m _in_ it. I’m curious as to whether the mind who dreamed this up has represented me accurately or inaccurately. Vanity demands that I read it!”

“Please never mention this again,” Talen groaned, scrubbing hard at his forehead. Perhaps if he took a sudden blow to the head, he might bash out the memory of this conversation and the knowledge that such a document existed. “Tell me about your meeting with Cassius instead. You’ve been looking into the murders. Let’s talk about murder. Please.”

A short laugh, bright and warm. “Very well, yes.” Dorian turned his attention back to his papers, searching through a tall stack until he unearthed one sheet in particular, cluttered with a list of names, notes, symbols, and a convoluted systems of arrows that appeared to be colour-coded. “After much digging, an unfortunate discovery, I’m afraid. The only thing they _appear_ to have in common is Cassius, which puts us in a difficult position. It becomes rather harder to convince magisters to vote with Cassius when those who do so tend to end up horrifically murdered.”

It snapped him back from the heat of his own embarrassment. Talen looked up, eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, all they have in common is Cassius?”

“I’ve collated family records, schools of attendance, acquaintances, from whom they borrowed money, and all of it, _all of it_ , has fallen short.” Dorian tapped at several notes on the page, but it went over Talen’s head. Instead, he listened, the tone in Dorian’s voice sharpening with interest. “A group of _seemingly_ disconnected magisters and a few pertinent family members with nothing to link them save their support of Cassius Niteo. Even their politics weren’t aligned – some were decidedly progressives, others most certainly not. You’ll see,” and here he rustled around and found another page, an elaborate chart with a rainbow of differently coloured inks. He underlined one name with a slender finger. “Theophile favoured drafting a treaty with Nevarra over disputed lands, whereas Euthymia,” another name underneath his finger, “held lands near the Nevarran border and thus favoured reallocating troops from Seheron to the lowlands in order shore up the Imperium’s defenses against invasion on _that_ front.”

“But they all supported Cassius?”

The thought set a siren off in Talen’s mind, like the shrill bells that warned of fires in Minrathous’s partitioned neighbourhoods, but Dorian seemed unconcerned. He waved a hand. “Yes, all of them. Some more fervent than others, a handful held in line only by a few key pieces of information we held over them, but yes, each of the eight who’ve been murdered in these weeks were votes upon which we could at least _likely_ count. Or, in the case of one, a loved one who ensured we had the vote of a magister less easily manipulated through direct means. We’ve deduced, then, that someone has it out for Cassius and his cause. Our cause. Not terribly surprising, considering his aims for the Magisterium and the nation, but rather a complicating factor in all that we do.”

“Dorian,” said Talen, slowly and carefully as if he were trying to pass through a crowded room unnoticed. A stray step, a careless turn, and all might be lost. “Don’t you think this has gotten a little more dangerous than we’d anticipated? Shouldn’t we – I don’t know – _tell_ someone?”

That got his attention. Dorian’s fingers stiffened around the paper he held. He tipped his head in Talen’s direction. “And who might we tell?” he asked, sounding at once genuinely curious and annoyed. “Cassandra? Yes, she could come barrelling into Minrathous, swinging a sword and bashing magisters over the head with her shield. That is the best way to solve problems in this country; I don’t know why I hadn’t considered it before.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Talen insisted, shifting his weight to lean a little closer, as if proximity might remove the sting of this line of conversation. “But, surely, if you’re in danger –”

“You forget,” said Dorian sharply, cutting him off, “that this is my homeland. The games that are afoot are ones I’ve been mired in since birth. Yes, there are certain dangers to being here, dangers slightly more overt than I’d anticipated, but they are not beyond my ability to handle. You swore to come as my companion, not my commander. These are my decisions to make. I needn’t have you calling in the _cavalry_.”

Talen swallowed, looking away. Yes, he’d promised. No, he didn’t want to swoop in as the Inquisitor, ready to send in troops and call for the aid of the his soldiers and spies. But if Dorian was in danger, if he’d tangled himself up in a web drawing tighter and tighter around him –

Dorian had said that Talen would struggle with remaining uninvolved. He was, as usual, wholly correct.

There were many things Talen found difficult. Disappointing Dorian was chief among them.

“Of course,” Talen said softly, rubbing his temple. “Of course. I’ll stay out of the way. But if you’d like me to look into anything –”

“I would ask,” Dorian finished, brusque.

A small silence stretched between them, uncomfortable.

“Maybe I will go to Antiva after all,” Talen offered after a moment. A silly thing, but one that might turn the mood. He raised his eyes to meet Dorian’s gaze, which was still cloudy with – whatever _frustration_ Talen could provoke, unique among all others. “Someone, at least, appreciates that I’m a _blade in the dark_.” He smiled, then, a sliver of a thing to show that he wasn’t being serious.

“Antiva?” Dorian’s eyebrows shot up. “Maker, whatever for?”

Talen ignored the tension still simmering underneath the too-cheerful tone of his voice, and pretended he heard only the brightness.

“Well, I’d best tell you, because I’m afraid Cassius will have gotten the wrong end of the stick,” said Talen, settling back into the chaise and bringing one foot up to rest, plush, against the warmth of Dorian’s thigh. His lover reached out with one hand, sliding his palm along the line of Talen’s leg to rest, steadily, at his knee. A warm, reassuring weight. “I received the most _intriguing_ proposition – another chapter, perhaps, for my pamphlet. I came in tonight to _Esidor_ , of all people, who wanted to warn me that you were upstairs with another man…”

*****

“The next one is slightly unusual,” said Proxima, when Talen stopped by the perpetually dark and cool Society house later in the week, finally finished the latest string of tidy kills she’d had him out on. The last one had taken him to a brothel on the edge of the city, where a Rivaini linguist, who’d acquired a particularly wealthy rival in the Imperial University, had been known to whittle away the evenings with a notoriously gifted slave. _Gifted_ , the dossier had read, _in his knowledge of tongues. His use of them too_.

Sometimes, Talen wondered if the acolyte compiling dossiers for him made this kind of notes just for him, or if, like Sera, Iro just couldn’t help herself. A missed opportunity though, he mused when perusing the notes. She could have said the courtesan was a cunning linguist and have seemed all the more clever for it.

In any case, it did turn out that the courtesan in question had an exceptional knowledge of obscure languages and forgotten dialects. Talen supposed he had other talents as well, being a courtesan, but it seemed the former that interested the Rivaini linguist the most. Not to say she went without the latter, not by any stretch of the imagination. Two birds with a single arrow, after all.

It didn’t particularly matter what the linguist hoped to achieve when she spent time with her courtesan, of course. He waited just the same until she stepped out onto the balcony, fingers stained with ink from her note-taking, robe half-open from other activities, and then he reached out from the shadow and very neatly broke her neck.

Talen pulled himself back from his last job to focus on the one before him. “Unusual in what way?” Because he’d already had to follow a perfectly ordinary but apparently renowned shoe-maker for two days with no explanation at all and no signs that it had done anything other than help Talen realize just how intricate shoes could _be_.

The guildmaster’s face, usually as placid as calm water, creased, a line between her eyebrows like a ripple in a lake. “Our patron heads a sizeable operation in the Imperium, involving the manufacture and transport of uncommon and valuable goods. A rival has recently begun intercepting her shipments and redistributing them to their own ends, and she has identified a warehouse to which a recent shipment has been… relocated. She believes we have a brief window to reclaim her goods and to determine which one of her rivals has started this conflict.”

Talen shifted. It wasn’t as odd a job as Proxima seemed to think it. Where significant coin was involved, subterfuge and death were sure to follow. “So I’ll be heading to the warehouse for reconnaissance, or to clear out whoever’s been causing our patron trouble?”

A head shake, her lips tightening. “The crux of the matter lies on whether the information our patron has received about her shipment is good: Are these her goods? If so, who moved them? To what end? Who has been making this possible? Where is the weak link in her operation? Answering these questions will be difficult for one not involved in our patron’s business and not affiliated with her organization.”

“Which is why she has asked me to come,” said a voice from the doorway of the meeting room, in heavily-accented common tongue.

Talen twisted to look at the woman behind him and found himself face-to-face with a porcelain mask, features delicately and intricately carved in shapes both sublime and monstrous. For a moment, he was back in Orlais, guessing at the intentions of the unfathomable crowds, the nobles who lied with honeyed words and immutable faces.

“Ah,” said the elf, “A new face in Minrathous after all.” With long fingers, she pushed the mask up over her tousled hair, shorn short in the back and longer near her cheekbones. Her eyes, narrow and bright, searched his face with such serious scrutiny that he felt as if he were under a looking glass. “Proxima told me that you were new to the city, but I could not be sure until I had seen you with my own eyes. There are too many liars here and I have made no small number of enemies – a risk of doing business. Profitable business.”

“So you’re to go with me,” he said. She was broad-shouldered for an elf, her skin as coppery as his own. Freckles brushed the tops of her cheeks and, were it not that she held her body as if it were every inch a weapon, she might have been overlooked in favour of someone a little more like Cassandra when searching for the most serious threat in a room.

Not that Talen would bet on anyone over Cassandra. The Seeker remained the most formidable person he’d ever met – in battle and in integrity.

“Oh, quite the opposite, Dalish,” she said, with a smile made of steel and blood. “ _You_ are coming with _me_. We will break in, kill the upstart’s cronies, and then determine exactly who we are dealing with. You, I expect to clear bodies and move crates while I do the investigation, and then we must recover as many of the goods as possible before my owner’s rival realizes we have come. A short enough window: once the screaming begins, someone is bound to take notice, even by the docks.”

_Her owner_. Talen frowned. “You’re a slave?” Because she didn’t seem it, with her dangerous stare, the brazen way she’d corrected him.

Her eyes narrowed to slits, pinning him in place. “Does that offend you? To stoop _so low_?”

“It offends me on your behalf,” he said, serious.

A sharp laugh, then. “Proxima, you have found a true gem.” Her eyes passed right over Talen as if he didn’t exist. “We shall depart, then. I will have your noble savage back to you before the night is through.”

“Good hunting. And may shadows keep you.” Proxima’s lone offering and Talen’s dismissal. He pushed himself up as the woman led the way out of the Society house. A long sword was strapped across her back, so tall that, on someone less muscled, he would have wondered if she’d fall over when unsheathing it.

They walked in silence through the streets, a crescent moon suspended high above them in the sky. The air held on firmly to the day’s heat, refusing to relent to the chill of night. The back of his neck prickled with sweat as they ducked through closed spaces – under narrow arches, forgotten and claustrophobic pathways linking neighbourhoods, all the hidden, secret ways one could move through Minrathous less likely to be seen than on the open boulevards and thoroughfares most citizens used.

“I’ve not introduced myself,” he said as they stepped into a shadowed alleyway that would run in an indirect switchback all the way to the waterfront, if he counted a few of the half-tunnels they would need to avail themselves of. “I’m Falon Sabrae.”

She made a sound in her throat, low and short, but didn’t look back.

Still, he’d always operated under the belief that getting to know those with whom he worked would make for better results, whether as Inquisitor or assassin-for-hire. “And what should I call you?”

The woman drew to a sharp stop, pivoting on her heel so abruptly that he nearly ran into the jut of her shoulder. “You,” she said, and here she spared him a sharp little smile, “can call me _commander_. And I will call you Dalish, and that, pretty boy, is the end of that. You will follow my lead, play nicely, and we will be fine. Maker knows I would be fine without you, but she insisted.”

“ _She_ did? Your –” He couldn’t say owner. “Our patron?”

She rolled her shoulders, a practiced motion. The straps of the sheath holding the broad blade creaked. When she’d finished stretching, she fixed her attention on him through drooped eyelids that spoke of her utter boredom. “Understand, Dalish, that we know not what we walk into, and I am an especially valuable asset. Your help was cheap – Proxima gave us a discount so we would take you off her hands for the evening – so now I am up a pair of daggers and an elf who looks as if he would be more likely to kill with kindness than to do any real damage.”

Had he a more delicate ego, he might have been hurt by her dismissal of anything he might offer. As it happened, saving the world from Corypheus had all but inoculated him against this kind of goading: she could say all she wanted about what he looked like or what she imagined him capable or incapable of doing and it mattered less to him than the opinion of the Skyhold barkeep. Who, to be fair, was often at least a little insightful.

He huffed a laugh, dry. “A fair enough point,” Talen said. “It _is_ how I’ve made my name so far, killing with kindness. People here are particularly vulnerable, being so accustomed to back-stabbing and blades from the shadows that another route entirely has been necessary for murder. Generally, I find that if I start by saving a kitten and then move on to knitting them mittens, most are dead before I’ve even unspooled the yarn.”

For a moment, her face remained impassive as the mask she’d worn. Then, as if beyond her control, the woman’s lips twitched, the ghost of a smile. But it was a moment come and gone, as faint as distant moonlight. She returned to her task, leading them toward the warehouse where they’d find, Talen presumed, opiates of some sort. Merchants only were that vague – _goods, shipments, products_ – when dealing in things not wholly legal.

It could have been slaves, except Proxima knew better. She may have thought him studied in his writ, but even the writ had its reasonable limits for what a man could be asked to sacrifice to compliance to the contract. He might only be death, but beneath death’s ribs beat a heart that would not see certain injustices permitted. Not while there was still a blade in his hand.

They’d passed underneath the final walled partition, using an open canal grate to sneak unseen past the guarded gates on the main thoroughfare, when the woman finally turned and said, “Rilere. That is my name, though if you ever repeat it to anyone not Proxima, I will find you and cut your tongue from your beautiful face. Believe me, it is something I have done before.”

He held his hands aloft, placating. “Very well. Not that I’ve anyone _to_ tell. I seem to be hired to kill everyone I end up meeting.”

Her lips thinned, shoulders tight, and Talen relented. “Of course, _Rilere_. I will mention your name to no one.”

Rilere grunted, then pulled the mask down over her face. In the distant, cold moonlight, it made her look a creature from myth, all empty, dark eyes and sharp-toothed, snarling grin. “The warehouse we seek is on the _Third Steet_ canal,” the name said in Tevene, but simple enough that he understood its meaning. “We go to the canal and use its loading dock to enter the warehouse. It will be dark under the building; we will be unseen until we burst into the middle of the room, reigning swift death on those around us”

He nearly laughed, but bit the sound back. A creature of myth indeed: she spoke as if one of the guardian spirits from his childhood stories, every inch of her drama and poetry. This, from a warrior slave.

Her plan he could work with. “If you draw their attention once we’re inside, I should be able to move around back and dispatch of them in short order. Presuming, of course,” and here he spared her a little smile, though her face was now stoic porcelain, “we’re not dealing with an army. Or a great number of qunari. They’ve exceptionally thick skin, so severing the spinal cord poses a bit of a challenge – especially if stabbing _up_. And with qunari, it’s always stabbing up.”

“It won’t be qunari,” Rilere said, easing the last grate out far enough for them to slip through, before she slid it back into place. As if they’d never been there. “Although that might be fun,” she added.

He imagined that her eyes flashed behind the mask in amusement, but it may well have only been the moonlight.

They ducked through shadows and darkness, although their care was nearly perfunctory: at night, the docks stood almost empty. A few drunken wanderers, perhaps some merchants who’d only just arrived in the harbour from distant locales or else who wanted to ensure their goods were well-guarded against those who might poach them.

The warehouse in question was set directly onto a canal to make the ferrying of goods from the harbour throughout the city easy. It would also, of course, work well as a point of departure for stolen goods: once inside the warehouse, crates could be moved to a barge under the cover of night and then sent out to a greater ship waiting in the harbour. Ideal for illicit goods and even more ideal for stealing from black market merchants who would have vengeance and pursuit chief on their minds.

A low and squat building, the warehouse looked as tired as an infirm old woman. Its walls were cobbled together from a collection of large, hand-shaped stones, but the mortar holding the whole thing up flaked away in rough scrapings, as if Blackwall had taken a chisel to it in an attempt to rearrange it into something resembling a proper warehouse. The roof had been patched so many times that it looked as though it were a scrap quilt.

Rilere jerked her head toward the dark line that was the canal and Talen moved over obediently. An inside ledge ran along the side of every canal in the city – a way for workers to make repairs, to fish out pieces of garbage or the occasional body, to assist with barges that may become stuck or, gods forbid, tip over if goods were stacked improperly. The brackish water, dark as ink in the night, lapped quietly at the narrow ledge that was but a hand’s breadth or two wider than Talen’s shoulders.

It would be public slaves who were tasked with maintaining the canals. Elves. No one else could fit. No one else would work this close to the water that grew dingier and grimier as it travelled farther from the harbour. The upper canals were mired with algae and fouler things he liked not to give name to, waters almost thick with filth. At least near the harbour the water smelled only of salt and looked, even under sunlight, relatively clean.

Talen dropped down over the edge, pressing himself into the shadows that fell beneath the wooden crane overhead. The thin sliver of a moon was the only light above, but from here he could see the lights of the warehouse in question reflecting in the dark waters. The line of light glinted off the canal, a bright and rippling outline to a square of darkness.

A square of darkness. That would be a problem.

Behind him, a scuff, and then Rilere was at his elbow, peering through the dark. “They’ve closed the hatches,” he hissed to her. Each warehouse had, running from the canal to its centre, a docking port, where barges could be hitched and loaded or unloaded. For the sake of security, heavy wooden hatches could be closed and bolted should the goods in storage be particularly valuable.

Or should those holding them be particularly uneasy about being found out.

Regardless, the hatches were meant to be their way in and they would be locked from the inside – impervious to the tools of his trade from this side of things. Clearly, they would need another way in. Talen glanced up at the warehouse, made taller and almost formidable by the shift in perspective. Perhaps one of the windows…

“ _Venhedis_ ,” Rilere spat under her breath, leaning close. “My information said they were expecting the ship tonight, so the hatches should have been open. Their contact must have been delayed, and they hold the goods for longer than anticipated. But they are nervous we will find them, as they should be. The main doors, then. I had hoped to avoid them. It will form a bottleneck, and they will have access to the higher levels from which an archer might easily –” She stopped, shook her head. “No matter. This must be done.”

“We may yet find another way in,” said Talen, nodding to the windows high above. Rilere leaned closer, the edge of her cool mask brushing his shoulder.

“You would have to climb the crane, and then somehow make that leap.” Her voice grew thick with skepticism.

“Not all of us carry a sword that doubles our weight. And I’m rather light on my feet.” He reached, found purchase on the edge of the canal, and pulled himself up, still under the heavy beams of the crane. “I’ll get in to open the hatch and try to avoid being seen in the process. If you wait there,” a sharp gesture to the underbelly of the crouched warehouse, “I’ll find you a way in that’s more subtle than breaking down the front door. I’d rather we had the element of surprise.”

Rilere nodded. “Very well, Dalish. Make it happen.” In a moment, she had disappeared beneath the darkness of the warehouse. Her faith in his abilities would appear to stretch this far.

He’d need to make good on his plan, then, and prove himself worthy of her meagre trust. Talen had grown used to being relied upon to lead armies and decide the fates of nations. Rilere's skepticism was very nearly refreshing.

Talen studied the crane above him, its reinforced joints and intricate framework. The arm was angled slightly toward the warehouse, tall enough and close enough to make a leap to one of the inlaid windows sills possible, if difficult.

He’d be better off if the arm tipped a little closer to the building, but Talen couldn’t risk the noise of turning the large crank at its base.

_Let’s hope I’m as light on my feet as I’ve promised_. Because, of course, this time there would be no mage at his back to throw a barrier around him should be fall.

Resolute, Talen parsed out a way up the crane. He found footing at its base and, using a series of interconnected dowels added perhaps to create a means up if the thing should ever need maintenance, he hauled himself onto the arm to crouch at its studded joint.

Climbing the arm would leave him in a vulnerable position. There were no shadows for him to hide behind, no higher profiles to obscure his shape. Here, the moonlight would catch his eyes and the outline of his body; should one of the guards inside of the warehouse happen to step outside and cast their eyes upwards –

There was no time to waste. He needed to be efficient.

The arm of the crane was roughly hewn, built to be strong, but it was a narrow surface to crawl up. Underneath his palms, wood caught at his skin. Still, he moved, feet scuffing as he edged up the incline.

The ground faded beneath him, lost in darkness. Ahead, the light of the moon gilded the winch in silver. Talen took another few careful crouched steps, then pushed himself to his feet at the narrowest part of the arm, where there was barely enough width to give him a good platform for a leap.

He turned, fixed his attention entirely on the windowsill that was barely deep enough to hide him while he slid the glass open.

One breath. Two.

Should he fall, he might break his neck and be done with immediately. More likely, he’d break something that hobbled him and kept him from running. He would also alert the guards, who would make short order of him.

Should he fall, Rilere would disappear into the night, unaffected.

Should he fall, Dorian would wonder where he’d gotten off to and, as the days stretched on, grow sick and sicker with worry. He might write to the Inquisition for help, think the worst – Talen, kidnapped? attacked? tortured?, only to have the truth of it be that the grand Inquisitor had failed a jump to a windowsill when on a stupid job for not enough coin.

A paltry end to a promising story.

His heart beat against his ribs, as flighty as a halla on the run, and Talen reminded himself furiously that fear did him no good. He simply _couldn’t_ fall. That was all there was to it.

He leapt.

The arm beneath him groaned as it shifted so that, as his legs uncoiled, he wobbled. A moment, sickening, in the air, stomach in his feet and heart in his throat, and then he crashed into building hard enough to rattle his teeth. His hands scrabbled for the windowsill, fingers barely catching the edge, rough stone scraping brutally against his skin. His feet braced hard against the wall beneath, toes pushing _up_ as hard as they could, but one foot dangled uselessly, seeking any sort of purchase, anything to keep him from crashing down and – but he couldn’t –

There was no other option. Talen pushed harder with the foot that had found a tiny lip, kicked hard with the other one against the wall and caught, finally, on the outcropping of a small stone. A quick, hard breath rattled in his lungs as he willed his muscles to stop quivering, and then he hauled himself up to the windowsill, tucking his legs in underneath him as the crane’s arm swung wide, the shriek of its gears shrill in the quiet night air.

From inside the warehouse, muffled voices talking in alarm. Footsteps, growing louder, heard through the thin glass.

If they happened to swing this window open to peer at the noise outside, he was done for. He held his breath, heard the rhythmic sound of a body moving closer, closer –

But the footsteps faded again, and the window one over clattered open. “ _Nothing_ ,” said a rough, male voice in Tevene. “ _The base was not secured, idiot_.”

A noncommittal sound. “ _It was not my job_.” A woman. “ _I guard the goods; slaves do_ –” a sharp string of words Talen didn’t know, but he imagined it involved banal tasks beneath the _great minds_ left guarding a warehouse.

The window rattled shut again and the footsteps passed by the place where he crouched, the muscles in his thighs burning from his panicked scramble for footing.

Talen had done some damage to his hands. He flexed them, feeling the scraped and raw flesh of his fingers and palms. _Well done_ , he thought. _You’ve managed not to die horribly. Keep that up and all will be well_.

Carefully, he freed a thin flask from his belt and broke it on the stone of the windowsill. In an instant, he was cloaked, the familiar coolness settling over him as might a mist, leaving a metallic tang at the back of his throat.

He slipped a pick in the seam between the two panes of glass, catching the clasp and easing it open. He pulled open one pane, gently easing it out until he could just barely slip past it; he nudged it back into place as soon as he landed in the space inside.

He stood in a dim upper hallway, the air bitter and too hot. A row of doors were set into the inner wall – to smaller storage rooms, he imagined, or else offices for the requisite paperwork, or spaces fallen into disuse.

Voices from downstairs echoed up. Talen listened, counting. Five distinct voices, and those would just be the chatty ones.

He edged toward the rickety wooden stairs, but stopped short.

From behind one of the doors, a broken, dry sob.

Something inside of him twisted. His job was to sneak down to the hatch, to open it, and let Rilere in, swinging her greatsword around and winning back her master’s goods. _Ours is not to question_ –

It could be but another guard, having had a falling out with one of their colleagues. It could be any number of things.

It might also be slaves.

Perhaps Proxima did not know him nearly as well as he thought. Perhaps Rilere hadn’t wanted him doing anything except moving boxes and bodies because she was worried with what he might find her master involved with. Certainly, his patron had no qualms with owning slaves and sending them on dangerous missions, regardless of apparent worth as an _asset_.

He turned, slipped back to the door. With an ear pressed against the wood, he could make out hushed voices, soft and brittle with fear.

Talen’s hand hesitated at the lock. Falon would not do this, but, then, he could only live so much of a lie before it became poison. And he could not turn his back on slaves who needed help, not if he hoped to be able to live with himself.

If you could not rest easy in your own heart, what else mattered?

In an instant, he had his tools out and slipped inside the simple little lock. A twist, a scrape, and then it gave way. He cracked another flask, wiping away the glamour that hid him from sight, and then slid inside, the door shut behind him.

The room was tiny, dingy, a perpetual grime in the corners and smeared across the walls. It smelled of unwashed bodies, the musk of sweat and grease.

Six figures huddled together in the far corner, an unsteady tangle of thin arms and torsos, but seven pairs of eyes turned on him. A guard sat atop a crate. He blinked once in surprise at the elf before him, unbowed, unbroken, and then opened his mouth to raise the alarm –

Talen was across the small space in a flash and wrenched his knife hard through the tough cartilage of the guard’s larynx. A wet, bubbling gasp, and Talen swung his dagger again, up through the soft opening under the man’s chin and straight through to his brain. The man toppled against Talen when the blade was wrenched free and Talen eased him down to the floor, hot gouts of blood soaking the front of his shirt.

He looked up, then, to the captives, who stared at him with rounded eyes. If he turned out to be wrong about this, if these were but slaves being ferried from one place to another who would as soon raise the alarm as accept his help, may the Dread Wolf take him for his stupidity. He raised one bloodied, sticky finger to his lips. A plea for silence, that no one would scream.

A girl, crouched in the front, met his eyes. Her hair hang in lank, unwashed strings around her face. But, staring at him, her features hardened and she nodded once, a shaky, little jerk of her chin.

Thank all the gods.

“Are you alright?” he asked them, as they remained huddled in the corner, all bony elbows and jutting collarbones, eyes too large and sunken inside their skulls.

Silence and blank stares were the only responses. He looked closer: many wore the marks of new injuries. Livid, purpled skin, cuts still tacky with blood that hadn’t quite clotted. Underneath, marks of older injuries: whitened scars, bruises faded to greens and browns, the shiny skin of large wounds nearly healed but still sensitive to touch.

No, they wouldn’t be alright, of course not. Not after what they’d endured their whole lives. Not after what they’d endured recently.

He tried again, in his best Tevene. “ _Are you without injury?_ ” And then, to the point, “ _Are you needing help?_ ”

A young man, hardly more than a boy who’d still not grown into his ears, edged forward. He was all elbows and dark eyes, a mop of hair as black as a raven’s wing, but stood a little straighter than the others. “ _We are meant to be gone_ ,” he said, voice raspy and quiet as if he hadn’t a drop to drink in ages. “ _From Tevinter to the south. Already, we are meant to be gone_.”

“In escape or in trade?” Then, again, as closely as he could in Tevene. Were these slaves who’d run or were they simply passing from hand to hand?

“ _As running from_ ,” said the dark-eyed elf. “ _A lie, somewhere – from the golden bird or elsewhere, we do not know_.”

That made no sense to him, the specifics. Talen lacked a frame of reference – but he did understand the basic premise, regardless of the players involved. Something had happened to them. These six slaves were poised to escape and had instead been caught, trapped here. Had it been those who’d promised them freedom or someone else along the line who’d snared these vulnerable souls? Was it Rilere’s master who shipped them, unaware of her cargo, or did she knowingly package the slaves with her goods? Was that a noble gesture, only to be stymied by the unknown rival, or was she complicit in the affair?

A woman who kept slaves surely would not free them, not knowingly or not without significant personal gain.

Still, there were guards downstairs and a warrior waiting below the building, ready to divorce heads from bodies. None of his questions could be answered here and there were miles to go before he’d have the time or space to do so. Other things mattered more than solving this particular puzzle at this moment.

Like his people, here before him, who needed help.

“ _Do you know Minrathous?_ ” he asked, still crouched over the body.

The girl in the front nodded again, cheeks grimy with dried tears. Her lips tightened, muscles in her jaw flexing – a will of iron, a desperate mettle found in the darkest of hours.

“ _Leave here. In Viperia section_ ,” the neighbourhood where first he had met Proxima, with its abandoned houses and secret courtyards, “ _find the houses with boarded doors, a broken fountain like a wolf. Empty. Wait inside – I will come._ ”

The boy frowned. “ _But now?_ ”

Talen smiled, unbidden, sharp and mean. “ _Death to the masters_ ,” he said, tapping his finger against the floor, pointing to downstairs. “ _You wait; I come_.”

The girl looked to the dark-eyed boy, and they seemed to settle on something in the silence between them. She straightened. “You,” she said in the common tongue, “are from the south? You know somewhere that we will be safe?”

“I know the Inquisitor,” he said firmly. “He’ll ensure you’re safe and that these beasts will never come near you again. I can promise you that. There is nothing he hates so much as slavery. He is one of the people, like us.” A gesture, for the others, to his ears.

“You – you _know_ the Inquisitor?” asked the girl, eyes flaring wide in surprise. A sharp little intake of breath at his nod. She hissed the title in Tevene, something unfamiliar and jagged in the mouth, and they all, then, stood a little straighter.

If his name could be a beacon of hope to the hopeless, then he’d achieved all he had ever hoped for from his position, however unwillingly he’d first accepted the mantle. However incredulous Talen had been, this, truly, had to be the purpose of a figurehead – to bolster flagging spirits, to stand tall when others might fall, to inspire those from whom all aspirations had been stolen.

For now, however, present problems. “I must go,” he said, tapping at the floor again. “Meet me in Viperia and I _can_ get you out.”

A promise he had no means to fulfill, but a promise he would see through. If he had to shed his secret identity and use his sway as Inquisitor to wrest these six souls from Tevinter, so be it.  Dorian would understand; he would _have_ to. This was not something Talen could abide, not when he had the power to make it better.

With a final, solemn look at the people he would see to freedom regardless the cost, he cracked another flask and slipped from the room to rip the guards below into shreds. Andruil help him, he would be brutal tonight in his attentions. _Just vengeance_ , he’d imprinted on his body, and he would see that through.

The stairs to the open space below were rickety, unsteady. He eased his way down, minding his footing so that the wood didn’t creak beneath his weight, all while taking note of his opponents: seven guards of varying size and alertness. The room was large and mostly empty, although crates were stacked upon crates in a tower in the far corner, each of them emblazoned with the mark of a yellow bird with black wings surrounded by flowers.

The woman for whom he completed this job, he assumed, or else the sigil of the rival who’d claimed these goods for their own. Whether or not his patron had a hand in the condition of the slaves upstairs was a question he would need to answer at a later date.

For now, Rilere lay in wait, and he could use her help.

The warehouse dock was dark and deep, the hatch neatly blocking access from outside. If he slipped into the shadows where the edge of the floor gave way to the hatches, he could hide under floor beams and work on the locks. Once he’d picked the lock, he could kick the hatch open and leap into the fray, still unseen, while Rilere came in swinging.

A steadying breath. None of the men or women guarding the space looked especially daunting, except for one towering woman, all hard muscle and dark glower. Across her back, a tall stave of a dark, unfamiliar metal. A mage, and one not unaccustomed to battle, he’d say. The others in the room gave her wide berth, so she was likely their commander or else vicious enough to warrant caution from even those who fought alongside her.

Broad, wooden beams separated the base of the warehouse from the waters below. He headed across the space, inching his way toward the dark space of the dock.

The mage shifted, a frown accompanied by deep furrows in her forehead. Her eyes passed over the place where Talen had frozen but a few feet from the dock. To his left, a guard stretched, yawned, said something about _cards_ , while Talen’s heart hammered hard against his ribs.

Shit.

Sometimes, those who were unusually perceptive might see through his glamour. Once seen, the whole thing seemed to fall away. All the advantages he gained in stealth dissolved into a frantic, frenzied battle.

He just had to hope something else had caught her attention, or that she hadn’t _quite_ spotted him yet.

The mage shifted, boards creaking underneath her feet. She took several steps toward where Talen stood, his right hand already easing a dagger from his back. He would be ready if need be. It might be him against seven guards, but he’d fight for the sake of those upstairs. To give them a chance to escape, a chance to dash to freedom using only their own wits and strength of will.

A sound split the quiet of the warehouse, a clattering from upstairs, the banging of a door.

“ _Qarinia, Herodite, to the slaves_ ,” barked the mage, head twisting to look at the stairs.

He took his chance. Talen leapt forward, rolled over one shoulder and dropped down to the docking space below. The hatch made a sharp, too-loud sound under his feet.

_Shit_. Tools in hand in an instant, he leapt on the lock –

But no. There was no time, and he had the advantage of being _atop_ a hatch that swung open _downwards_. Talen shifted his weight and kicked as hard as he might at the lock.

His foot bounced hard off the lock, throwing him off balance. He had to make this happen, had to –

With a fierce twist, he slammed his heel against the lock as hard as he could, pulse _pounding_ with desperation.

The hatch swung open beneath him, just as he scrambled back, grabbed hold of a floor beam and pulled himself back up into the warehouse.

Into which Rilere came flying, her perfectly formed white mask a complete contrast to the fury that animated every taut limb of her body. The guards all jerked to attention, even as she swung and neatly cleaved the head from one who’d left her helmet by her side. The two sent upstairs had already disappeared to a different part of the warehouse – but the mage, _she_ already had stave in hand and spinning in a deadly pattern.

The air sang with electricity, crackling violently.

Already gripping his daggers, Talen rolled out of the path of a guard now barrelling at Rilere. He sprung up and, with a hard jerk, slit the man’s throat just as he raised his sword to strike the warrior.

She didn’t even turn. Rilere threw herself at the mage, singular in focus. She’s identified the most serious threat and left the rest to Talen – a trust he would see justified.

Rilere’s sword bounced, hard, off a barrier the mage had cast, violet energy sparking underneath the force of the broad blade. The mage twisted, bringing up the end of her stave, where a jagged, cruel tip jutted, ready to part flesh and spill bowels.

Talen had spent enough time battling against mages and alongside them to know how to undo her in bits and pieces and clever little stratagems. But, then, so did Rilere, who fought for her master in the Tevinter Imperium. She threw the weight of her great sword down, the whole floor trembling beneath the mighty blow, as Talen whirled, thrust one dagger through the heart of a woman just about to move past him, then tossed another across the room – buried it deep in the throat of a pale man who’d just nocked an arrow, blood spurting down his front as his mouth puckered in surprise.

The mage, snarling, stumbled backwards on feet made unsteady by the shattering blow Rilere had just struck. Energy hummed between her hands and she threw a bolt of power at Rilere, who side-stepped the lance, in unrelenting pursuit.

Still, the mage scrambled backwards. Talen wrenched his dagger free of one guard’s chest, looking around the room. Just then, another guard thundered down the stairs.

“Leave one,” roared Rilere, slashing hard at the commander. “The mage is _mine_.”

There’d been two upstairs; this one, he could finish. The other could be spared for questioning. In an instant, he’d closed the space between them, pivoting around to her shoulder and, with an efficient little thrust, finding the vulnerable piece of skin at the back of her neck.

She crumpled at his feet, spinal cord neatly severed.

But the mage was growing desperate. She brought her staff up furiously as Rilere swung down, aiming to split her in two. Metal screeched, the mage’s biceps taut, just as Rilere threw her body’s slight weight against her blade, trying to drive it down.

“ _Filthy beast_ ,” snarled the mage. “ _Foul little slave_.” Her hands darkened, the skin of her knuckles blackening. In the air, something foul, his teeth vibrating with the latent energy building to a violent  crescendo in the space between Rilere and the commander.

“Careful,” Talen barked, just as the dark energy began to roar its awful, discordant song. Something he’d heard before, but not in months, not since –

Rilere laughed, a wild, brutal sound, even as the space between them bent with the darkness the mage was calling to her. “ _I think not, mage_ ,” she spat in Tevene and then, with a final, vicious push, drove her sword straight through the center of the mage’s staff, the metal splintering and shrieking as the woman’s head and torso were split into two ragged halves.

The space above the mage exploded into shards of dark energy, like a handful of caltrops thrown to bury themselves in the deepest layers of skin and bone. Rilere staggered back, misstepped, and slammed down, her sword clattering to the floor beside her.

Talen dropped to one knee, left hand pressed tight against his body as the world roared in his ears, an awful storm, before snapping to complete silence. He realized distantly that his hand ached right down in the bone and tendon – underneath the tattoo meant to cover up the truth of who he was.

But there was no time for that. He shook his head hard, tried to clear the shadows clinging to his skull. “Are you alright?” he asked, his voice louder than he’d intended in the strange silence of the room.

Whatever magic that mage had been using wasn’t one he’d encountered before. It stank of the Fade, foul and musty.

Rilere let her head drop, staring up at the beams of the ceiling blankly. “By the tits of Andraste. That was an ugly little magic she was using.”

“But you’re not _hurt_?” he insisted, staggering to pull his other dagger from the throat of a dead man. He needed to arm himself again. He would not be without his weapons, not while danger remained so potent and acrid in the air.

She propped herself up on an elbows, using one hand to push the mask up over her head. Her skin was pale, like tea with too much milk. “No. Although I’ve got this awful taste in my mouth.” A sniff, hand wiped underneath her nose. And then she jerked up suddenly. “ _Fasta vass_ , you go get the other one before the wretch gets away and we are without answers!”

He’d forgotten. In the span of a breath, he’d turned and clattered up the stairs, toward the back of the hallway through which he’d first come.

His foot caught on something, and he twisted, slammed hard to the ground before he could tuck his shoulder in a roll. Talen wrenched himself around to see what had tripped him –

An arm, limp.

“No,” he breathed, pushing himself to his knees. All around him were heavy bodies, the floorboards dark and slick with blood. “No,” again, a dark fury tearing at his heart, breath hard and jagged inside his chest, like he sucked in lungfuls of ground glass.

All of the slaves were dead. All of them, throats slit. Except –

In the far corner of the hall, the dark-eyed boy sat, holding his hands to his stomach, so still that he might as well have been a shadow. Talen crawled near him, a groan escaping the boy’s lips.

Next to him, a guard, the skin of his neck livid with bruises. He’d been strangled.

The air stank of blood and shit. Talen reached out to the boy’s hands, pressed so hard to his stomach. Slowly, he pried fingers from the wound the boy tried to conceal –

Intestines slipped forth as the boy’s fingers opened, wet and foul and perforated straight through.

Talen pressed them closed again. His thoughts were clouded, dark as a starless night with no hope of ever seeing light again.

There was no coming back from this. None. The boy would die and he would die horribly. Talen’s hands were slick with blood around the boy’s, whose eyes had grown glassy, dull.

“ _You killed the masters_ ,” the boy said, breath hitched.

“ _Yes_.”

A thin laugh, gurgling from his mouth. “ _Good. I killed a master as well_.” He paused, breath uneven, coming in little fits and starts. Then, “ _You will help? Not this one. For this one, the time is late. Others. The_ ,” and here he used the word that meant Inquisitor, voice softer around the syllables, gentler, like they were worth saying, “ _He will help others_.”

“ _He will help others_ ,” Talen repeated, hollow-hearted. The words were ash in his mouth. “ _I will help now._ ”

It would take hours for this boy to die. There could be no relief.

How he wished to have Cole with him at that moment. How he needed Cole’s strange strength, the certainty of his compassion.

With his right hand still cupped around the boy’s, Talen eased one dagger from its sheath with his left. He might not be Cole, but he could still offer help in this small way. He looked to the boy, the question in his eyes unspoken.

The boy nodded, pale and gurgling.

With the hand imprinted with vengeance, he pressed his dagger straight through the boy’s heart. Even as he cradled the head of the dead child – still a _child_ , a _boy_ , not yet an adult – against his shoulder, Talen thought, clear as ink upon a page, _This is not over. I will not let it be over. Not like this_.

He would find out who had done this. And he would destroy them, utterly.

*****

He was of no use to Rilere afterwards. She found him, still holding the dead boy, among the bodies of the slaves he’d promised to help. She stood perfectly still at the end of the hallway.

“I need you downstairs,” the warrior said, voice hard, and the edges of her words were muffled, as if spoken from behind a door.

Talen touched the cooling forehead of the dead slave, killed on his dash to freedom. He knew he should respond, give some sort of indication he’d heard, but –

His skull was full of storms. He could barely think. For one so used to death, he ought to be able to at least _think_ – and yet this, this was a failure. An utter failure to live up to the reverence with which his title had been spoken.

He was accustomed to death, not to failure. Not since Haven. Not like this.

Rilere continued, unconcerned. “Shortly, a runner will arrive to determine our success and, upon her signal, my master’s barge will come to collect the stolen goods. Move them to the warehouse dock, wash up, and you may leave. I need to see if I can find shipping manifests or contracts, perhaps, that the guards signed – anything that might come with a name attached. The solution to the puzzle my master has been trying to solve for many months.”

Still, he crouched. He didn’t care about Rilere’s owner or about his patron’s share of the black market business. He cared about the dead slaves who’d tried to run to freedom, who he’d promised safety to, and who had died brutally. “Why kill them?” he asked, and his voice sounded so far away that he almost suspected someone else of having posed his question. “Why bother?”

A throaty sound. “Because dead slaves spill no secrets. You would not believe the things that are said when we are around, how loose tongues become. They would have seen or heard something – a liability.” She paused, and then sighed, long and loud. “This is the Imperium, Dalish, and these slaves’ deaths are but a drop in the ocean. Collect yourself; there is work yet to be done.”

Collect himself. Said so simply, as if it were but a matter of pushing the weight of a dead boy off of him, shrugging off the greater weight of his promise, now broken into sharp, tiny pieces that would be caught forever beneath his skin. Indelibly etched into him, this failure. _His_ failure.

He could do no such thing, not when faced with this. "They were innocents,” Talen murmured, thumb caressing a damp strand of hair that stuck to the dead boy’s forehead. The boy whose name he didn’t even know, the boy whose name he would _never_ know. “They sought freedom – that which should belong to us all."

The scuff of a footstep behind him. Rilere drew closer, but not near enough to touch. "All slaves know the risk of running. This was not an end for which they were unprepared.” She paused, and the silence around them was heavy as a mantle. Finally, “Dalish,” she said, footsteps loud as she approached with certainty. Her hand dropped to his shoulder, where it was an unyielding weight. “You need to begin moving the crates. We haven’t long. You did well, truly, and now you must see the job to its conclusion.” A pause, her fingers tensing into something perhaps meant to be a reassuring squeeze, but it felt hard instead. A cruel jibe. “ _Falon_ , move.”

“Did you know? Did your owner?” he asked, muted. “About –”

The hand once intended to reassure hauled him backwards, toppling him into her legs. She yanked him forcibly to his feet, shoved him back so hard his head knocked against the grimy wall. In Rilere’s eyes, nothing but fire. “ _Yours is not to ask questions_ ,” she snarled. “So you had best mind those questions. You did a fine job; collect your coin and be gone. This is _mine_ to deal with, _not yours_ , so you must wipe from your mind all you have seen and turn your _noble heart_ to other matters.” A hard sneer transformed her face to an ugly, bestial mask, worse than the porcelain lie she’d strapped over her head in the darkest hour of battle. She gave him another shove, just as forceful, and Talen tasted copper at the back of his throat. “Go scamper back to Proxima; I am done with you. But get the blood off your hands first. You would not want to be stopped by the city guards looking like that, Dalish, not here in Minrathous. And then I would think of leaving Tevinter for less brutal nations. Kind, soft hearts have a way of being stomped to pulp here. This is not the place for you.”

_No_ , he thought, _it’s not_ , as Rilere made a thick, disgusted noise and shouldered her way into one of the dingy little rooms he’d thought might be an office.

But she was right, in a way. He couldn’t stay in the warehouse. He had nothing more to offer her. He wanted to offer her owner nothing more of himself. He needed to leave.

Talen stepped over the broken bodies in the hallway and slipped down the stairs, bones feeling so very hollow that he thought his legs might give way beneath him at any moment. Downstairs, more broken bodies, these ones completely deserving the ends they’d met. He hovered for a moment over the mage, who’d been torn asunder, whose blood wetted the floorboards beneath her, dripping down through the gaps and into the canal.

Again, his palm ached. He rubbed it, thumb pressed hard to the hollow where he’d been named an agent of vengeance through ink and sigil. Where he’d been given an unintentional gift, marked as someone of import. Someone who could change things in ways that mattered, even if that was a choice of his making rather than the determination of some god.

He was meant to make things _better_. For everyone. Then and now. Still.

There was something going on, something to do with whatever wretched spell the mage had been casting and the little black market rivalry he’d been brought into and the slaves promised freedom and given nothing but lies and death. Around him, the crates emblazoned with the golden bird, the sigil of the woman who’d hired him or else her competitor’s mark stamped over whatever had been beneath.

He had to know what darknesses he walked into. Talen approached a stack of crates and, with the edge of one dagger, hands leaving smears of rust behind, he pried open its lid. Inside, little rows of neatly stoppered vials, a milky liquid locked in a perpetual, slow motion entirely of its own accord. As if a living thing, coiling and uncoiling in sensuous threat.

There was much he didn’t know of the world, and the newest innovations in opiates certainly fell into that category.

If he meant to find whoever had done this, he would need to know what this substance was and how it might be connected to the deaths of the slaves upstairs. Was the rival's goal the opiates or the slaves? And why would someone want slaves bent on freedom? Their desire to escape marked them unfit for service, so there would be little coin in their sale and even less in their bounty.

But they would be without documentation. Untraceable. Disposable.

Perfect for the manufacture of dangerous drugs, or else research into new, forbidden magic, foul as the Fade and brittle with unfamiliar power.

He took one vial, tucked it inside a secure inner pocket, and replaced the lid on the box. All around him, golden songbirds and black flowers until the onslaught became a cacophony he hadn’t the tools to decipher. Yet.

Talen spared a glance to the stairs. It may not have been Falon’s job to ask questions, to dig into schemes for justice instead of coin, but it was the Inquisitor’s duty to seek the truth, to right the wrongs of the world, to make Thedas _better_ for those too often abused by its machinations. And his duty as Inquisitor superseded any he might have as the thin character he’d become in Tevinter.

Rilere may have warned off Falon Sabrae, but she couldn’t frighten Lavellan. He would have the truth of the matter, even if it meant dipping into the web he’d crafted that stretched cities and nations. If he had to use his power as Inquisitor, so be it. On black wings, he would find the truth; with the Inquisition at his back, he would avenge the fallen.

Resolved, he dropped out the hatch that led to the canal, edging out from underneath the slick beams of the warehouse and back along the narrow walkway. He paused to dip his hands in the cool, murky water of the canal, scrubbing hard to wash the blood from between his fingers, from underneath his nails. With cupped hands, he splashed the salt water against his face, wiping hard at the skin stiffening with blood not his own.

The night outside had finally cooled, dark and calm and quiet, though all of it was, he knew, a lie. There could be no peace in this place, not really. Somewhere, forces conspired for small and petty purposes and there would be innocents caught in the crossfire.

His feet carried him through darkened, empty allies all the way to the Society house, while his mind chased after thoughts as indistinct as figures through fog at twilight, edges soft and indistinct, shadows as like to be lies as not. Talen stopped, drawing himself briefly from the haze of his thoughts, to leave word for Proxima that he’d completed the job.

“And you were successful?” asked the acolyte who loved to leave him cheeky notes. Her short hair stuck up in haphazard bits and pieces as she’d no doubt been frustratedly scrubbing her scalp while trying to translate some particularly inappropriate comment from Tevene into a common tongue equivalent. “It was all a bit strange, this one.” A little bag, fished out of a locked chest, and pressed into his palm.

Blood money. Payment for his failures which would, to others, be successes: guards killed, a warehouse cleared, goods secured – even if some didn’t make it out unscathed.

He tried to shrug, but his shoulders had tightened as if drawn together by merciless lacing, binding him tighter and tighter with strings of grief until he could not move for the pain. “I imagine the patron will be pleased,” he said after a pause. “Until tomorrow, then, Iro.  Although, if you wouldn’t mind, a brief summation of the important black market factions in Minrathous wouldn’t be amiss. I’ve, uh,” and, weary and hollow as he felt, he had to scramble for something at least a little believable, “reason to believe that this contract may require additional time to adequately come to an end, and I do my best work when I have all of the relevant information.”

Her smile, usually so generous, slipped for a moment before righting itself. A stray hand to her head where she rumpled her hair again. “I’ll do what I can, Falon. Until then, _shadows keep you_.” The last words, in Tevene, were emblazoned above the door to the house, the warmest wish for an assassin – to always have a cloak of darkness, to remain unseen and unaffected. To emerge from darkness and to guide those whom had been marked for death into its embrace.

He made his way back through the city that was at once beautiful and wretched, a mixture of brightnesses – the endless white buildings and walls, the twin beacons on the hills of the Senate and University, the light always glinting off the undulating waters of the harbour – and unbearable darknesses. Shadows within shadows within shadows, until there was nothing left but the darkest night of the soul – an abyss impossible to escape.

_The Dragon’s Heart_ glittered with its little lanterns, calling him to its cool interior. The top level of the hotel was dark except for the faint glow of a lantern inside the reception room, muted light soft and inviting through the gauzy panels of white fabric that were pulled shut to keep out prying eyes or, during the day, vicious sunlight when a rare breeze wasn’t preferable.

Dorian would still be out, then, whittling away the hours of the night – trying to win votes to maybe, perhaps, begin to change Tevinter. If things lined up as he’d hoped. If votes stopped dropping dead. If they could all agree on what a better Imperium looked like. If they could draw their minds away from themselves for but a moment to spare some compassion for those being crushed under the weight of the empire.

Talen slipped inside the front door, where one of the household slaves stood, always, waiting for the arrival of guests. Trio, who’d helped with their horses when he and Dorian arrived several weeks ago.

He blinked at the boy, dark-skinned and slight but looking in that moment as had the elf in the warehouse – young and clear-eyed with the whole world ahead of him. A boy who _should_ have had the whole world before him, were he not caught in the wretched jaw of a country that would see him dead and ruined rather than living the life all men and women deserved. Rather than being free.

Words caught in Talen’s throat, impossible to dislodge around the thick guilt gumming him up, so he nodded, sharp, and passed through to the back reception room. He walked up the stairs, his body moving of his own accord while his mind swam in blackness. With a heavy heart, he peeled off his clothes, now stiff with blood, and crawled into the little space where the slaves had left his things that first day.

He could not sleep in Dorian’s bed tonight, not after what he’d seen. Not after what he knew others endured. To lay in finery, while slaves desperate for freedom died for even the chance at a journey south. Who said the Inquisitor’s name as if praying to a god.

Who had, unknowingly, spoken to the man himself, a man who had done nothing but get them killed.

Talen had not prayed in many years, but he spared a moment for Elgar’nan and Mythal, for vengeance and justice. _Give me the means to make this right or else tear this place to the ground. Give me the strength to avenge the fallen and bring a vicious justice on the heads of the wicked._

He may not have believed in the gods, but the ache in his palm reminded him of what he did know to be true. Vengeance, darkness, tangled knots that would resist being undone, knots he would cut to pieces should he need to.

His thoughts black, his body weary and sore and numb at once, Talen closed his eyes and willed himself to emptiness, to the dark nothing. Tonight, it would be a comfort.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant for this to be like half the length it ended up being. Oh dear. 
> 
> This chapter would be a huge mess without the truly wonderful [spycaptain](http://spycaptain.tumblr.com), who gladly accepts the thousands of words I throw at her at once, sifts through them, and makes them approximately one million times better with her insight, thoughtfulness, and enthusiasm.
> 
> As always, you can find me in my favourite little corner of the internet on [my Tumblr](http://mstigergun.tumblr.com), where I aggressively care about fictional characters and my followers. I'm always keen on making new friends, so please get in touch if you're so inclined. I am a huge dork and just want to talk about feelings! Come talk about feelings with me!


	4. Toward the Empty Throne

**Chapter 4: Toward The Empty Throne**

 

_But when they took a single step_  
 _Toward the empty throne_  
 _A great voice cried out_  
 _Shaking the very foundations_  
 _Of Heaven and earth:_  
  
 _And so is the Golden City blackened_  
 _(Threnodies 8:13)_

*

“Rumour has it you’ve brought one of those _tattooed elves_ from the south with you, Dorian. You must bring him along one night – how curious it would be, to speak with such a creature!” A pause, a painted brow furrowing over the lip of a fluted crystal glass. “Oh, he does speak something comprehensible, doesn’t he?”

Dorian smiled, though he would much rather be baring his teeth. “Lord Sabrae is rather occupied, Reah. And I should hope that my company is more than compelling enough. If I’ve not managed to capture your interest, I fear I may have lost my edge while in the south: I’ve seen you watch slaves spinning ribbons for hours on end.”

Maker knows he would rather fight another high dragon than speak for a moment longer with Magister Maheras. However, as she was the elected representative of one of Tevinter’s Circles of Magi, he could hardly avoid to turn her aside. Not when Cassius was so very desperate for reliable votes. The Senate was but a month from reconvening, and he had only lost support since Dorian’s arrival.

Yes, they had persuaded a small cohort of the clarity of Cassius’s vision, the plausibility of his hopes for the Imperium, tantalizing a few with early drafts of compelling pieces of legislation –

But murders had a way of draining the momentum from a political movement. Curious, that.

The insipid woman fluttered her eyelashes, although the corners of her mouth curled into cruel little barbs. “One must always seek particularly adroit slaves to enrich one’s household,” she purred, taking a sip of the summer wine that their host had been raving about.

_From our own orchards, just north of Asariel. The sea air has a delightful effect on the grapes and we’ve a master vintner – I bought him from one of the Landas twins after Kria ran her mother’s last estate into the ground. A tragedy for the Landas legacy, a certain victory for my wine cellars!_

Truth be told, Dorian found it thin and uninspiring. Much as this whole affair.

“I couldn’t say. I’ve come to find the entire institution rather distasteful.” Perhaps not the best way to woo a magister and win her vote, but the words had snapped past his teeth before he could bite them back.

“You know, Dorian, I had wondered to what extent your time down south had affected you, particularly after you threw your lot in with the Inquisitor and his _cause_.” Another sip, a pointed look, and then Reah sighed. “I do wonder if your new elf might shine some light on how exactly the other one’s mind works. I imagine some insight as to their,” she paused and tilted her head, “ _particular_ way of life and peculiar belief system may make our relations with the whole organization smoother.”

“Is that a concern of yours? Our relations with the Inquisition?” Dorian fixed his attentions again on the goal before him. Once he’d laid the appropriate foundations with Reah, he might conclude his evening and return to the hotel. How lovely bed would feel once he’d scrubbed the remainder of this conversation from his skin.

Her eyes narrowed. “Only a fool would disregard its influence. What was it I heard Vyrania saying? That the Inquisition may have an unsound theological basis and a _remarkably_ unusual creature at its helm, but it does have a way of… making things happen. For better or for worse. And, admirable as the Archon is, he has shown certain weaknesses in adequately addressing our southern neighbours.”

This was precisely what Aurelia had indicated Dorian discover. The woman represented a Circle, but also had sprawling estates to the south of the country. Her concerns were pragmatic: improved relations with the Inquisition would, by proxy, help alleviate some of the bad blood that historically existed between her family and neighbouring Nevarran lineages.

Very well. An opening with which Dorian might work. It simply required that he ignore the woman’s baser qualities and pretend that he cared for a moment what she wanted.

“Yes, how rare it is to find one of our kind who can stomach the south and all its quaint particularities. Building bridges takes a certain quality of mind: far easier to set them ablaze than see them pieced together and protected.”

Reah leaned in, shadows gathering at the hollow of her throat. “And yours would be the hands to build them, Dorian? I doubt you’ve ever done a day’s labour in your life.”

“And that’s why we have _magic_ , my dear,” he said. “No need to go about felling trees or mining quarries when a clever spell will do. I’ve often said that it is this that marks us as different from our southern neighbours. We know what magic is capable of doing and are unafraid to use it to benefit our people. The south favours brute force while we count upon finesse, scholarship, innovation.”

She laughed, throat a pale line. “Oh, you _do_ sound like him. The Magister who would have us all play nicely for the betterment of our nation!”

A stubborn woman, but not without a certain pliancy. “Surely,” he said, steering the conversation back to point, “we might be able to spare a few niceties if it means winning favour from the Inquisition and returning the Imperium back to her glory days. If you and I can have a conversation for this long without stooping to the name-calling of our schooldays, there may yet be hope for Tevinter.”

Reah looked at him thoughtfully, finger tapping against the curve of her glass. “You may have a point, Dorian, as much as I’m loathe to admit it. And I will admit that I have not found cause to dismiss any of the concrete proposals Cassius has proffered, however few they might be. A man of ideals who can translate them into a sensible legislative reality is not one who would be without my support.”

A small victory. He pressed, now that his fingers were but inches from the prize of the evening. “Shall I plan on adding your name to the list of those who might be interested in seeing some early drafts of _concrete proposals_ , then, when they grow more numerous?”

“An action that would not be amiss,” she demurred.

Dorian smiled. It felt refreshingly genuine, as a breath of cool air on a stuffy evening. “Then I wish you an excellent evening, Magister Maheras. If you’ve no other need of me –”

“I’ve not yet had _need_ of you nor do I expect to start,” the magister said, eyes narrowing even as her lips remained in a sharp, tight smile. “Though, again, should you think to bring your lovely little elf with you, I might find something to recommend your company beside the few worthwhile political connections you might proffer.”

Ah, yes, the payback strike for his earlier slip. Reah was many things. Forgiving was not among them. She was the sort of woman who recollected each and every sleight and waited patiently to return them in course. An eye for an eye had never boasted a more fanatical proponent.

He took his leave, gladly.

When Dorian had first arrived in Tevinter, he’d hoped he might be able to focus more on where the Imperium was _going_ rather than where it stood at the moment. Yes, he’d expected the tedious parties, the even more tedious conversations, and the constant string of meetings and plots and convoluted politicking that reminded him just why he’d left. The Imperium’s vices were known and quantifiable: conspiracy, pettiness, back-stabbing, arrogance. But he’d also had hopes for its virtues – its ability to innovate, to transcend the smaller things of the world in pursuit of meaningful knowledge. A nation in which those with true talent could rise to power.

Certainly, the south had nothing to compare to Tevinter’s potential for progress. Before the Circles had been dissolved, the Chantry had gladly locked up its best and brightest, made them ashamed of natural abilities that, with correct guidance, could have brought the southern nations ahead by leaps and bounds. Even now, with Leliana’s decisive actions from the Sunburst Throne, the south was in chaos. It would take years for the southern mages to develop appropriate colleges of study and decades longer for the populus to feel anything beyond bitterness, suspicion, and fear when thinking of mages.

The Imperium alone had the wherewithal to radically change what might be done with magic, to truly study and understand the Fade.

That such a study had previously led to the Blight –

Well, Tevinter had many vices, as Dorian well knew. Arrogance had a way of turning curiosity into a dangerous thing.

But a Magisterium from which the petty scramble for power had been removed? When each mage wasn’t trying to outdo their peers – where curiosity could _afford_ to be tempered with caution because the stakes were not personal gain but national well-being and prosperity?

A nation in which he could again afford to believe.

Dorian first had to jump through the requisite hoops. Which meant biting his tongue more often than not and playing by the rules he could not afford to break if he aimed to see Tevinter to what it might yet be.

Dorian stepped out of the house and into the dark courtyard behind it, a small sliver of garden with an ornate fountain in the middle. Aurelia perched upon the carved lip, a slip of a girl who looked little more than a shadow in the night.

“Had your fill of politicking for the evening?” he asked, drawing close.

She sighed, stretching to dip her fingers in the water of the fountain, flicking droplets back at the surface when they gathered on her fingertips. Over the past few weeks, he’d had cause to spend a fair amount of time with her – a promising mind with a promising future in the Magisterium if she could play the game cleverly enough to win a seat in the Senate.

“When Cassius first approached me to stand for representative, I turned him down,” she said, still watching the dark water in the fountain’s basin.

“Did you? Well, as we both know, it is a rather impossible thing to say no to Cassius more than a handful of times. He does have a way of wearing down one’s defences and protests.”

Not that Dorian had tried to stand firm. He’d been desperate to get back, a disquiet he had been unable to name until the letter had arrived asking him back to the Imperium. For Aurelia’s sake, however, he might pretend at understanding.

After all, there was someone in Dorian’s life whose wishes he found wholly impossible to turn aside.

Aurelia smiled at him, a small and genuine thing. “I told him I thought my mind better turned to research than legislation. Which is why he needed me, he said. _A mind uncorrupted by the desire for power_.” Her voice deepened in imitation, eyebrows angling to mimic the seriousness with which Cassius spoke when conversation turned to the future of the Imperium and its Senate.

Dorian offered a short laugh, arms crossed. The night had cooled considerably since he’d made his way to the party. The slight chill marked the shift from the height of summer to her declining days. “I imagine he didn’t tell you that being _uncorrupted by the desire for power_ tends to make these evenings rather dull. Nothing quite like being forced to play a game in which you’ve no interest.”

Her smile deflated, as if she’d taken an arrow to the heart. “Yes,” Aurelia said. “That’s rather it, I suppose. And something you would know quite a bit about.”

If it were anyone else speaking to him, he might imagine a trap being laid rather clumsily at his feet. As it was, Aurelia was as genuine a person as he’d encountered from Tevinter – excepting, perhaps, Felix, who’d been of rare stock indeed.

A quip about being forced into playing a simple and crude Ferelden card game while camping in Crestwood stood waiting on his tongue, but he swallowed it down.

Cassius needed someone like Aurelia at his side when the Senate came back into session, someone stout of heart and willing to speak her mind when others would wrap the man in endless lies – beautifully wrought, but deadly. Dorian could hardly have her losing heart.

And she was a clever girl, capable and kind. Worth, he thought, a moment of honesty.

“Indeed. Something of which I know a great deal.” He shifted, turned to look at the sky overhead. Overcast with nothing but eternal darkness above. “But I can also tell you that withdrawing does little good. I spent years in the south, always with a… restlessness lying in wait. To have such hope for what the Imperium might be but to only watch from a distance! Sometimes, one must be willing to get a little muddied to win the battle, if it is one worth fighting.”

There, something almost forthright. It was a relief, if he was being truthful with himself as well: like drinking cool, clear water after wandering in a desert. An oasis at the heart of stone and dust. And this one without a giant!

Aurelia stood, wiping the last moisture from her hands against the generous panelling of her robes. “Dorian,” she said, mouth twisting into a serious shape. “I’ve not said it before, but I think you ought to hear: you speak of your time in the south as if it were trifling. I know it was not.” A furrow in her brow marked concern, earnestness. “You saved us all from darkness and you saved our nation from her own long-standing tradition of arrogance. You are the best of us; you need to know that.”

He stared at her, a strange feeling inside of his chest, as if a bird had taken up residence where his heart should be. “You overstate my involvement,” Dorian found himself saying. “I wasn’t the one closing fade rifts or leading armies.”

“You were at his side,” she insisted. “You were doing what any good Tevinter mage should have been doing – you _alone_ , Dorian. It’s not a little thing, to love a nation so much that you’ll risk her scorn to save her. That is a dedication I would have as well, a virtue to which I aspire.”

He was actually at a loss for words. Dorian blinked several times in rapid succession. Distantly, he could hear the chattering of banal conversations from inside of the house, the clinking of glasses, a man’s deep laughter.

“A pity you aren’t planning on staying. Cassius is a man of great vision while you’ve shown yourself to be a man of action.” A pause, and then Aurelia turned her head to face the house, shifting the conversation from this curious line of thought. “I’m putting together a symposium this week – a chance to discuss possible legislation with mages from each of the circles. I’m hoping that it may convince some that I’ve a mind suited to thinking about the practical in addition to the theoretical. It may also set the tone for what Cassius hopes the Magisterium might yet be: collaborative and based in the honest exploration of ideas.”

“A fine idea,” he murmured.

“If you were able to attend, I would be very pleased.” She shot him another bright smile, eyes flashing in the dark with that same _earnestness_ he found both enchanting and dangerously youthful. “For now I must convince First Enchanter Hione that, yes, a young necromancer does have the _strength of character_ and _clarity of vision_ to stand as her Circle’s representative. She’s been putting off this conversation for weeks, but has only just arrived here. There will be no escape tonight.”

With another exchange of pleasantries, Aurelia headed inside, tracking down the First Enchanter whose support could very well mean the difference between being elected and not.

_A virtue to which I aspire. A man of action_.

Well. Dorian did enjoy being flattered and Aurelia had outdone herself. He held her words gently in his mind, as if cupping something fragile and soft in his palms. She’d come surprisingly close to saying that she would have preferred to be following _him_ through the political mire of the Magisterium instead of Cassius.

A novel thought, Dorian staying here. Dorian, a magister.

Just as it had always been intended.

Except that there could be no place for him in the Imperial Senate nor in these suffocating social circles in which he’d been forced to move these past few weeks. Not as Dorian was, not as Tevinter was – yet unchanged, if ripe with the possibility of better things.

Saying that he didn’t find the idea appealing in some way, tempting even, would be a lie. But a simple reminder of what the Imperium would demand of him – his continued denial of his lover, the ceaseless and precarious balancing of pushing the envelope without shoving all of Altus society into a frantic reactionary backslide, and wearing a great deal more black – was enough to snuff the thought out.

Dorian sighed and permitted himself several moments to wonder at what might have been. If Tevinter were even the slightest bit more sensible about prioritizing what aspects of a person’s life ought to cause concern. As it stood, his nation was thoroughly backwards. Blood magic? A bit expected, but forgivable. Supremacist cult? Well, you could hardly help having a few of those about. Sleeping with someone of the same sex? Worse, _loving_ them? Outrageous! Deplorable! Why, one might as well start tearing at the pillars that held the Imperial Senate up on its hill!

But, as he’d said to his lover, wishes did not reality make. Dorian would do what he’d come to Minrathous to see done: Cassius at the head of a majority vote and the Archon persuaded to support his proposed legislation once it made it past the chamber floor. With that handily accomplished, he might leave again. Head back to the reality permitted him, however meagre it was when compared to the reality that _might_ have been.

_Come now_ , Dorian thought, straightening his shoulders. _This much self-pity is entirely unattractive_.

With that, he left the shadowed courtyard and stepped back into the house to make his excuses and return to the hotel.

Except that things could never be that neat.

He walked into a room filled with whispers, as frantic as the beating wings of a thousand trapped birds. Heads bent together in pairs and trios, everyone buzzing with whatever dark news had arrived this late at night.

Dorian had a suspicion.

Aurelia appeared at his elbow. “We’ve had a runner,” she said, leaning in close. Her eyes were wide, pupils constricted to pinpricks. “There’s been another murder.”

The words settled on Dorian as might a heavy pack, pulling him incessantly _down_ until he could not through sheer will alone remain upright. “And who is it this time?”

“You won’t believe it,” she said, taut lines forming around her mouth. The colour had washed from her skin, as though she’d come within inches of death herself.

The world dropped out from under his feet. Not Cassius, surely. No. That would be –

“ _Vyrania_ ,” she breathed, a liquid brightness at the corners of her eyes. “She was found in her home by a cousin after she’d missed their luncheon earlier that day. Head in her lap, heart cut from her chest and,” here her voice broke a little, made brittle with shock, “stuffed inside her mouth. He said her hands were – blackened. Scorched, like she’d been put to a fire.”

Dorian stared at her. It made no sense, not knowing Vyrania. “I find it hard to believe that such an accomplished duelist would be caught unawares –”

“She must have known whoever did it,” Aurelia insisted. Her hands, shaking, caught Dorian’s arm, fingers clamping down and holding him fast. “We’ve speculated that it had to be someone who’d hired an assassin, but what if it’s been a mage this whole time? One of _us_ actually committing the act?”

“It makes no sense,” Dorian reiterated. In the room around him, eyes flashed his way. They all wanted to gauge how he’d taken the news.

The loss of Vyrania would be a significant blow. She had brought Cassius impressive financial backing and her years of experience. A woman with a great deal of influence among the most progressive of the magisters, the votes on which Cassius could count most soundly.

In any case, staying here would do no good, not with the girl who Cassius intended to become a magister so very near tears. Aurelia and Vyrania had spent a great deal of time together in the intervening weeks since Dorian’s arrival in Minrathous. An arrival that had resounded not with the ringing silver bells and pomp he’d expected, but with funeral bells and the thick smell of the incense reserved for vigils for the dead.

“Come, we should go,” Dorian said, shifting her hand so that it was neatly tucked in the crook of his arm, as if this was what they’d intended the whole time. He pointedly angled her away from several more brazen onlookers, slipping with her toward the front entrance while he found something to prattle on about. “There will be a great deal to arrange, I’m sure, and I’ve heard that cousin of hers is notoriously incompetent. He failed to inherit any of the finer qualities of the family’s bloodline. Did you know she claimed an ancestral link to Archon Tidarion?”

Once outside the front door and into the empty street, Dorian finally released her. “We’ll need to meet with Cassius immediately. Go ahead – and _be careful_. I’m afraid that, if things have gotten this serious and we haven’t yet found our culprit, we’re in need of a little aid. As it so happens, I’ve someone with expertise in this area who would be a great asset.”

The thought itself made something dark uncoil in Dorian’s stomach, a thing acrid with fear and humming with _need_ , a frantic and ugly desperation. He’d run through his options; they had, all of them, exhausted all other avenues. There remained only Talen who was only too willing to help in any way he might.

It wasn’t that Dorian thought his lover wouldn’t want to help. He didn’t want Talen to _have_ to. He didn’t want to draw him into this quagmire.

Aurelia nodded, a shaky little movement even as she visibly tried to steel herself. “Your assassin?”

Something soft gave way in Dorian’s chest. “My assassin,” he repeated, the words softer in his mouth than he’d intended. If she noticed, however, Aurelia gave no indication. “Now go. I’ll see you at Cassius’s estate shortly.”

In a moment, she turned and disappeared into the darkness beyond, only a few distant lanterns providing any illumination on the streets. A dark night in more ways than one, he thought.

“Dorian.” From behind him, Magister Maheras. She stepped out the front door and moved to stand by his side.

“You know,” Dorian said with a wistful sigh, “I recollect a bygone era in which a summer season was considered adequately full of murder if we had two or three assassinations and a single duel. How things have changed! The youth of today – so very excessive.”

Of course he’d already anticipated what was coming. How she would have hated to be thought so utterly and thoroughly predictable.

“You may remove my name from your little list,” Reah said. “I find myself strangely attached to my head and would prefer to keep it that way.”

He laughed, the sound coppery on his tongue. “Now, Reah,” Dorian said, turning to fix her with a pointed look, a fire licking the inside of his skin. “Even _you_ must admit that was in terribly poor taste. And, given your propensity to wear robes not even a Ferelden apostate would consider fit for the light of day, you ought to be an expert. The apostate might even go so far as to show an iota of due respect and decency.”

With that, he turned heel and left, the vile woman staring after him in shock.

An evening of disaster after disaster. The loss of a crucial supporter, and the loss of another who he would gladly have offered in Vyrania’s stead. Reah never seemed to use that empty head of hers. She could do entirely without, despite her protests.

_Bring your little elf_.

Oh, he would. How he hated to disappoint.

*

Of course, actually asking his lover to do this for him was a little harder than simply waltzing into the room and insisting he come traipsing about a murder scene with Dorian and his Tevinter allies. Talen had been – not himself, of late. A little more distant and a great deal more distracted. Underneath his eyes, dark circles like bruises. His hands were scraped raw, something he’d explained away with words entirely too curt, but Dorian could wrest nothing else from him.

“A bad job,” was all he’d been willing to offer. And then, “I’ve stepped back from the Society. I’ve one on-going assignment, but won’t be picking up any shorter tasks for the foreseeable future. Truth be told, I’ve grown a little weary of all of the killing.”

“You? Weary of killing? Perish the thought,” Dorian had responded, trying for the animation his lover suddenly lacked.

Talen, then sitting in the shadows of the back balcony and staring blankly over the darkened courtyard, made a short sound in the back of his throat. Something that might have been a laugh on a different evening. “I do hate to disappoint,” he’d murmured.

It was enough to give Dorian cause for concern, that strange, brittle tone, the tension holding all the muscles of Talen’s back hostage. He stepped in close to his lover, a hand pressed gently to the skin at the back of his neck. “You don’t disappoint. Never, amatus. How could you? You’ve made the world nothing but better.”

He’d been aware, of course, that their voices might carry downstairs, that listening ears may hear –

But Dorian’s concerns were for Talen at that moment. Eavesdroppers be damned. Should they think his soft tone, his endearments scandalous enough to repeat, Dorian would deal with the whispered rumours at parties when they were proffered.

“I haven’t,” Talen had said, but even as he said it he turned his body into Dorian’s shoulder, as irresistible a motion as the pull of gravity. He tucked his chin firmly against the curve of Dorian’s shoulder, hands pressing hard against the line of Dorian’s back. If his fingers left bruises, Dorian wouldn’t have been surprised, but it was a harshness of touch he would endure, a desperation he would yield to, so long as it stopped this emotional hemorrhaging.

Dorian was in the dark as to what exactly had happened on the job that had done this to his lover – the man who led armies without batting an eye, who plunged straight into the Fade with as much confidence as if he set out through familiar woodland.

He thought at the time of contacting Proxima, while he held Talen so tightly in his arms. She was fond enough of Dorian. She was also apparently fond enough of _Falon_ to have him running about the city nearly every night except these last few. Should Dorian pose the question, he might receive an answer.

But the guildmaster might know nothing beyond what Dorian knew. Talen might not want her to know how close he was to coming undone. How unexpectedly fragile he’d been left by whatever mission she had sent him on.

Dorian could only press so far without doing more harm than good. That much he knew well. Some truths required… coddling. A delicate touch. Time to lessen the sting before one could give them voice without breaking under the weight of the words.

So Dorian tried to carry on much like usual. He’d always found it helpful in times of duress to just keep going. To keep one’s self occupied, to adjust one’s self to a new state of being. Your father wants to leave you a husk of a man on the off-chance that you might marry the girl? Best to run away and learn how to live on nothing but charity and the offerings of your wits. The man you trusted wholeheartedly decides to throw his hat in with the vile mage who’d started the Blight? Well, best fall headlong in with the Inquisition and busy yourself flirting with the elf atop the whole thing. You’re wanted for something beyond bodily pleasures? Every library needs someone to catalogue it, after all; easier to think about discards than _not_ being discarded.

A different lover would have pressed, but this – Talen’s disquiet, his unsettled solitude – was a thing Dorian understood, even if he could not name its precise cause. Being undone was an ugly process, one that happened in fits and starts. In one breath, a broken man; in the next, beginning to mend, however tentatively. It was also a process that required busying one’s self with other things, occupying the time between _broken_ and _less broken_.

And Talen had been filling his time admirably of late. He may not have been running about the city on various missions, but he still disappeared for hours on end. He’d started picking up books and leaflets written in Tevene and sitting with one of the household slaves, reviewing script and possessive nouns and the nuances of Tevene verbs – particularly classes three through six. Dorian had stopped one night to inquire as to how a household slave had come to learn to read, at which point the dark boy had dropped a book in his panic and mumbled something about being _intended for the poet laureate of Val Dorma_.

Talen had found himself things to think on other than death and spying. The topics of study ranged from the economics and history of Minrathous to alchemy. He’d even picked up a bestiary featuring creatures from Orlais and the Anderfels. Curious, as the Inquisitor knew more of the animals that called Thedas home than some Tevinter scholar writing about these things third-hand, however meticulously footnoted.

A fascinating mind, the Inquisitor’s, always in pursuit of something. If he’d now turned it away from death and its intrinsic melodrama to linguistics, perhaps he might see cause again to laugh. Maker knew Dorian could use a little more humour and a little less gravitas here in the midst of murders and politicking, of alliances and ideology.

In any case, it was because of Talen’s sudden turn away from death and to other pursuits – pursuits that placed him at a distance from gutted magisters and stiffening corpses – that Dorian felt… _uncertain_ of how to approach this. An unfamiliar feeling, uncertainty, one that gave him pause.

Dorian had wanted to keep his lover firmly outside of the business in which he’d involved himself. He had done his very best to ensure Talen had remained in the south. When that failed, Dorian had chided Talen again and again about the boundaries that Dorian had to establish around what _he_ did here and what _Talen_ might do. And yet there were hard and fast limits to what Dorian might accomplish on his own. He had spent the past few weeks pushing against them as mule-headedly as he might, and yet they had not budged.

If he had to research obscure lineages and ancient folklore, fine. Parsing out who was killing whom when it was so utterly beyond the scope of the normal, even in the Imperium?

Perhaps beyond him. Perhaps.

But Dorian excelled at attracting those who might shore up his weaknesses, few and far between as they might be. Talen specialized in the unusual, and his loyalty was wholly and utterly beyond question.

So it was that Dorian needed him, however displeased he felt about it. However much he hated to draw his lover into this web.

With his head far more full with doubt than Dorian ever liked, the strange feeling like a black cloud obscuring his usual clarity of thought, he entered their suite. Talen sat at the writing desk, hunched over – his posture was atrocious at the best of times; it was worse when he was concentrating on something small and fiddly. His fingers were stained dark with ink. They looked almost bruised as the quill in his hand skated over parchment. When Dorian pushed the door open, his lover jerked back, snapping to his feet in an instant.

“Nervous, are you?” Dorian asked, noting Talen’s wide-eyed stare, the sharp intake of breath. “Worried a certain Antivan might come knocking?”

A smile, lopsided and unsteady. “Something like that,” Talen admitted.

He thought carefully about his approach, the tactics he might employ. Best, Dorian thought, to begin with affection and humour. There was too little of either these days, and Talen was always particularly susceptible to kindness. “Should I be concerned he’ll accost you again? I could always set him on fire. Or conjure up a little spirit to hound his every step. Anything to help put you at ease – and remind the man of his place.”

Sure as sunrise, Talen’s expression softened. “Kill a man because he made a pass at me? Oh, Dorian, you know just what to say.”

“Scorch him at the very least. I can’t have an _Antivan_ thinking he’ll steal you away.” Dorian leaned his back against the shut door, gaze travelling the length of Talen’s slender form.

As if on cue, a flush darkened Talen’s cheeks. “I don’t imagine you’re home this early to make eyes at me, _ma vhenan_ ,” he murmured, tilting his head to one side and returning the long, lingering stare. “Although if you were, I’m sure we could find a way whittle away the hours.”

“I’m sure we could,” said Dorian, unbidden heat skimming the surface of his skin in response to _that_ look. “Alas, as is so happens, you’re right. If you aren’t too preoccupied with your letter-writing, I could use your help, my darling _blade in the dark_. In ways that sadly would require us to leave the confines of the hotel.”

“If you start calling me that, Dorian,” Talen said with a small shake of his head, even as his lips tugged into a crooked smile, a private little thing reserved for Dorian alone, “I _will_ leave you. I have my limits – that is one of them. _Blade in the dark_.”

“A pet name not wholly inaccurate. You’re even more dangerous than usual when unseen and overlooked. Shadows suit you nearly as much as the bright lights of leadership.” Still he waited, skirting the point. Talen would soon offer questions of his own accord, and then Dorian might broach the topic. A gentle touch was necessary.

“You say that because, when I’m moving through shadow _unseen and overlooked_ , all eyes fixate entirely on _you_. As they ought to. I’m a great deal less interesting when stripped of my title –”

“Less interesting, no,” Dorian said firmly, refusing to let his lover’s mind take that particular turn toward darkness. “Less prone to draw undue attention? Perhaps. Although our Antivan friend might disagree.”

Talen rolled his shoulders, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, as if preparing to spar in the ring that rested at Skyhold just beyond the steps to the hall. “So,” he said finally, “you said you wanted my help.”

“I’m afraid,” Dorian said, still leaning against the door as languidly as he might to put Talen at ease, “that there’s been another murder. Magister Vyrania, at whose gathering the first victim was rather garishly revealed.”

Talen blinked several times as a frown took the place of his smile. “Yes, I know of her. She’s been murdered? When? Where?”

“Apparently in her house. Tonight.” Dorian narrowed his eyes. “You _know_ of her?”

A hand wave, to brush aside the question. “The point is, Dorian, that her estate is well-warded. I’d be surprised if someone was able to sneak in and catch her off guard. Especially – isn’t she quite a renowned duelist?”

Well, he supposed an assassin would have cause to learn a great deal about a variety of important people in Minrathous. And Vyrania had certainly been important. She remained important, though the ramifications of her death were yet unknown. “She _was_ , yes. In any case, this poses a rather serious problem: she was one of Cassius’s staunchest supporters and had no small amount of influence. As we’ve made such little progress on our own, I had hoped you might lend your expertise.”

Talen’s shoulders straightened. “Of course. You know I’m glad to help in whatever way I might.”

When Dorian smiled, it had all the trappings of something genuine, even if he had to bite back the low, dark feeling resting in his stomach. The sickly concern about involving Talen in all of this, the sense that he was being made smaller and smaller as his lover stepped into the picture.

None of that was permitted to pass into his expression, which he schooled to perfect and appropriate gratitude – not so happy as to be gaudy, not so dark as to reveal the things he kept secreted away. Far away. “Indeed. Then, if you don’t mind leaving your letter, we need to go meet Cassius and Aurelia at the Niteo estate. My hope is that we’ll be able to visit Vyrania’s house before she’s removed for funerary preparations.”

Talen nodded, ignorant of the deeper currents of Dorian’s thoughts. “ _Good_. Oh,” he paused, forehead creasing. “I don’t mean it’s good that she’s been killed. It’s only that I was on a job one evening when another magister was killed. I wanted to get a closer, but there were too many people around. Seeing her will help. It should help.”

“Then we ought to leave immediately. News of Vyrania’s death has already spread. She was practically an _institution_ , so we’ll need to move quickly.” Gossip in Minrathous moved faster than wildfire and, before the night was through, minor relations of every ilk would emerge from the woodwork to try and lay claim to her assets and her title.

“Of course,” and, in an instant, Talen had stoppered the ink and turned off the lanterns that made the room bright and warm. He disappeared for a moment to get changed – _we never know what we might encounter, Dorian, if we’re looking into that which someone doesn’t want us to_ – before emerging from the dark recesses of the suite. The transformation was immediate: from a lover writing letters and made pliant with sweet words to a man every inch the assassin, whose very shadow whispered danger. In the dim light, his hair was dark as ink, the lines of his vallaslin somehow crisper, his cheekbones sharp. The quiet exhaustion that had been dogging his steps seemed obliterated. In its place, only certainty and a simmering sense of _threat_.

Dorian did adore him, this man who contained multitudes.

“You’re staring at me,” Talen said as he moved closer to the door, where Dorian still stood, palm resting against the handle. In his eyes, endless darknesses.

“I will say this only once,” Dorian said then, feeling the need to draw Talen closer, to keep him alive in this darkness instead of tamped down in the daylight, “and so do listen closely and never, ever repeat it. I can’t have my reputation suffering more than it already has.”

Eyebrows shot up.

Dorian steeled himself. Best be out with it. “I am,” he said, “ _pleased_ that you came with me. You were right: having you by my side has proven invaluable.”

“I was right?” For a moment, the assassin faded and his lover emerged again, sly and teasing. “As in, you were wrong?” He leaned closer and Dorian felt the air that stood between them _crackle_ with tension, with heat, with unfulfilled promise.

“You can’t expect me to put it like that,” Dorian said in a low, intimate tone. “But I might go so far as to say that, were you not here with me, I should find myself wishing you were. That I’d had enough sense to listen to you at Skyhold. Sense – such a dreadfully banal thing, and yet too often remarkably _useful_.”

A laugh, then, small and bright as a pearl. “You – Ah, Dorian. One of a kind, _ma vhenan_.” And then he leaned up and pressed an insistent kiss on Dorian’s lips, hands knotting in the front of his robes.

Dorian’s hands found purchase at his lover’s sharp hipbones, palms sliding beneath dark fabric to skate the planes of his skin – soft and searing, both at once. A low, throaty sound escaped Talen’s mouth, slick as it was against Dorian’s. His hands reached, threaded through Dorian’s hair, pulling him down, closer…

As far as kisses went, it was entirely too short. This was an abyss of desire Dorian would see himself drowned in had he the chance. However, even as Dorian half-formed the thought, hazy with longing, Talen pulled back. His hands dropped to smooth wrinkles from the front of Dorian’s robes. Hands Dorian would far rather were tending to him in other ways.

Murder and conspiracy remained the priority tonight. To much regret.

“Is it wrong,” Talen asked, “to be this distracted by the way you look when there’s a dead woman to tend to?”

“Virtue is so often overrated,” Dorian murmured, sparing a moment to brush his thumb across the swell of his lover’s bottom lip.

“Cruel man,” Talen breathed, and then he slid past Dorian and into the dark hallway beyond. The streets outside were empty except for a few public slaves tasked with making every inch presentable overnight. The neighbourhoods this high in Tevinter were always immaculate, the effort of keeping them so largely unseen. As if, he thought wryly, by magic.

Perhaps Dorian had gone for so long without thinking about slavery, without really _noticing it_ ,  because it was practiced in such a way as to render itself invisible. Slaves, waiting as silently as shadows, always present and yet _never_ present, not truly. The sudden appearance of a breakfast tray, their perfectly cleaned suite, though Dorian could never say when a slave had come or gone.

Talen noticed, however. He addressed each of the household slaves by name and Dorian –

Well. He had to admit that he’d been less than diligent in learning who they were. His preoccupations had been entirely with the Magisterium and the Altus families he’d tried very hard not to think too much about in the years since he’d left the Imperium.

They made their way through the cool night, the streets far darker than usual. The city seemed muted, insulated against the world beyond these few hours. Dorian wondered distantly if there might be a storm gathering on the horizon. They hadn’t yet experienced one of Minrathous’s sudden summer storms – all flash, no heat. Unless a fork of white lightning happened to hit a vulnerable section of the city. That had a way of taking the dangerous charm right out of a storm.

What might Varric make of this story, he wondered. Secret lovers in Minrathous caught in a web of deceit, intrigue, murder, conspiracy.

If only the real world followed such conventions, Dorian might have hope that all of this would be tied up neatly by the time the Senate came back into session. The villain unmasked, the hero – conventionally Cassius, but Dorian liked to think he would star in this particular tale – successful in his goal, a nation made once again virtuous.

How very unlikely, but it was a pretty story as far as they went.

The walk was not long. Cassius had chosen to keep Dorian in a neighbourhood adjacent to his own. When they arrived, one of his household slaves was waiting outside. She ushered them in, back past the grand staircase and dining room and resplendent library to the private office where Cassius and Aurelia had withdrawn, talking in low voices.

“Dorian, excellent,” Cassius’s face went slack with relief. “I’d told Aurelia she shouldn’t have let you wander the city alone – not tonight, not after what’s happened to Vyrania, but –”

A pause, as Dorian stepped into the room with Talen at his shoulder, a spectre of darkness dressed entirely in black with daggers strapped across his shoulders. The man who looked like death. What was it they said? _Something something my name is death, fear me something_. He looked like _that_.

Aurelia lit up like a beacon. “Oh, _good_ , you’ve brought him!” She stood, walking over to take Talen’s hands in hers as she switched seamlessly to the common tongue. “Lord Sabrae, it is truly a pleasure to meet you. I’m Aurelia Livius.”

She paused for a moment, head tilting. Her hands stayed in places. “You’re – not a mage, are you?”

“No,” Talen said, watching her with grey eyes.

A sharp spike of panic lanced through Dorian’s abdomen. He had forgotten, having grown so used to the particular feeling of his lover’s left hand: the quiet hum of magic that sang right beneath his skin, under tendon and wrist bone and palm. Of course Aurelia would notice. She had an academic mind, fixated on details. His stomach twisted in the ensuing quiet.

Talen, however, remained stoic. “It’s particular to my people,” he said, voice quiet and certain.

“Oh?” Aurelia’s eyes flashed with interest. She waited.

She wanted an explanation, Dorian realized. Dorian would scramble to produce one, except that nothing in his lover’s reaction suggested panic. Perhaps he might say something appropriately vague about the Dalish.

Talen hesitated, the perfect picture of someone entirely out of his depth. He had, Dorian realized belatedly, adjusted the lines of his body so that he held himself as might a Soporati or Liberati.

Dorian shouldn’t have been so quick to dismiss his abilities at deception. Remarkable.

“We have old ways,” he said, when it became clear that Aurelia was waiting expectantly. “Our understanding of how they work is often lacking: the destruction of Arlathan meant that we lost a great deal of the knowledge we once had. But this –” Talen pulled his hand away, twisted his palm upwards so that the green tangle of lines were visible, “This is something we can still do. It’s a type of sigil that draws from the Fade in a small way. That’s where our gods are, what we call the Beyond. This is how we might yet connect to them.”

Clever, clever man. No one in Tevinter knew anything about the Anchor beyond its ability to close rifts. In truth, Dorian knew little more than his fellow countrymen. Certainly, he and Vivienne and Solas had theorized endlessly but had little in the way of sound explanations. Conjecture did not understanding make.

Aurelia reached out with her long fingers and traced the tangled shape. “ _Fascinating_ ,” she breathed. “Oh, Dorian, it’s just like the paper you wrote on the veilfire runes.”

A point he might use as a means into the conversation. “As it so happens,” Dorian offered, “Falon was crucial to my research. I could hardly camp out in the lost temples where we found the runes. For one thing, lost temples are sorely lacking in libraries. They also tend to be riddled with the undead, which makes conducting research a rather messy affair. Thankfully, I had an exemplar much more conveniently located – and one would could give answer to some of my more crucial questions. Rather hard to ask a wall what a rune _feels_ like.”

Aurelia’s attention pinned again on Talen, her fingers still resting in the palm of his hand. “I would love the chance to talk about this more with you. You said your people believe that these runes link you to your gods? Who dwell in the Fade?”

“It’s superstitious,” Cassius said finally, the words coming out as sharp and rough as a blade in need of the whetstone. “We have a great deal of knowledge about the Fade – obviously, not as much as we might have – but nothing suggests that there are gods hiding there. An absurd belief speaking more to ignorance than anything else.”

Dorian shot a quick glance at Talen. Although the Inquisitor had often said much the same thing in words that were certainly _kinder_ , he tended to… grow cross when people dismissed the Dalish out of hand. He’s nearly ripped a strip off of Sera when she launched in on one of her tirades in the Exalted Plains.

But this person who wore his lover’s face was not the Inquisitor. He was an elven assassin in Tevinter who had accompanied Dorian for the sake of offering his protection, not his opinions. Talen – _Falon_ – glanced briefly at Cassius, a fleeting look appropriate to a lesser citizen looking to speak with someone of standing, before he slipped his hand carefully from Aurelia’s grasp. “You would certainly know a great deal more about that than I do, Magister.”

“As fascinating as it is to discuss theology and magical theory – and, really, have there ever been more suitable topics for _getting to know one another_ – we have other matters to attend to,” Dorian said, steering the conversation to safer territory.

He had told his lover when they first entered the country that he would need to bite his tongue. There remained a limit to how much Dorian could expect Talen to swallow. Demurely accepting a magister’s dismissal of the Dalish as _superstitious_ and _ignorant_ was likely at the very far end of that tolerance.

“Of course,” Aurela said. “You’re perfectly right.”

“Perfectly,” repeated Cassius. In an instant, he had smoothed the annoyed tone from his voice. The light of the chandelier glinted off his hair, a crown of gold around his head. “The reports we’ve received have been rather horrifying so far. A brutal murder by all accounts.”

“Dorian suggested you might benefit from my help. I take it we can gain access?” asked Talen, crossing his arms. The gesture made him look smaller than he was and dampened the effect of his presence. He looked almost tame – an entirely conscious adjustment, Dorian realized.

“Already arranged,” Cassius supplied. He rubbed a hand across his chin, watching Dorian and Talen in equal measure. “I don’t suppose we might be able to ask Proxima if her people are involved in this. Her insight would be invaluable.”

With a sharp shake of his head, Talen dismissed the idea. “The Society doesn’t release information about contracts one way or the other. The writ is clear: an assassin is the weapon wielded by the patron. That patron’s intent is not our concern. We’re to be as silent on such matters as a blade.”

“How very helpful,” said Cassius drily.

A slow smile in return. “If the Society was involved, Proxima would never breath a word. If it wasn’t, she wouldn’t help either. It’s not her place. Thankfully, I am not Proxima. My own compass is aligned more closely with pragmatism than the writ. Someone is breaking all of the rules. It’s worth knowing who and why.”

“Precisely,” said Dorian. A small flutter of pride rustled within him. Talen was better at this maneuvering than he’d expected – a mistake on Dorian’s behalf. Of course a man who balanced a thousand alliances and obligations could handle one magister. He’d been schooled by Josephine after all, and there wasn’t a finer diplomat in all the south.

“Well, if there’s nothing else to discuss here, we ought not to waste time,” Cassius said, nodding toward the door. “Although, of course, I will need you both, Dorian and Aurelia, after we’ve concluded at Vyrania’s estate. There is much to discuss. Surely we can find a way forward even in these dark times.”

Talen seemed unconcerned by being brushed aside, already turning to slip out the door. Dorian watched the loose line of his back.

If he felt snubbed, he didn’t show it. He’d shown a remarkably delicate touch throughout the whole interaction. A small smile tugged at Dorian’s lips, which he tamped down firmly as they left the house. No need to start smiling like a fool when heading to investigate a murder. That would be dreadfully uncouth.

The four of them, three mages and a staggeringly important political leader playing at assassin, wound their way through the streets of Minrathous toward the grand estate that had belonged to the late Vyrania. Talen drew to the front, where Dorian knew his eyes would be skimming the shadows that clung to darkened alleyways and dead-ends in search of possible threats. Cassius strode just behind him. His staff was strapped across his broad shoulders, so ornate that it looked more like a piece of art than a weapon.

“Is he much like the Inquisitor?” asked Aurelia.

Rather blunt. Dorian spared her a moment’s glance. “They’re not – dissimilar. Although the Inquisitor would have been quick to defend the Dalish, winning Cassius over while simultaneously challenging his preconceptions. He is utterly charming while changing minds. He very nearly gives me a run for my money, although much of his charm comes from his _humility_ and so may only work on Fereldens.”

She craned her head toward him, as if listening to a secret as they passed underneath a lantern that glowed a warm yellow. Her expression softened, grew almost _fond_. “It must be hard on you,” she said, words so very quiet that Dorian had to strain to catch them. “Being away from him.”

Well, straight to the point then. He felt the space between his shoulder blades tighten. “I’d have thought you’d be a little more difficult to shock, dearest Aurelia!” he said. “I’m not certain as to what you’ve heard – no, wait. A lie. I _am_ certain as to what you’ve heard, but–”

She cut him off. “You misunderstand, Dorian. I know what it’s like to be ground down underneath the weight of familial obligation. You don’t think that entering a Circle was my first choice, surely, not after you’ve seen my work.”

Dorian watched her carefully, measuring the tilt of her eyebrows, the sudden insistence in her tone, the tension in her body.

“I fell in love with someone I shouldn’t have, not when my parents were so insistent on an excellent marriage that would produce perfect offspring.” Her smile grew brittle. “A funny thing, love in this country. We have our share of insipid poems and heartfelt theatre in which hero and heroine always get their happily ever after, and yet I can’t say that I know of a single case in which it’s worked out that nicely. Not among the upper echelons, anyway.”

“The impoverished have it little better, I’m afraid,” said Dorian, turning to brush dust from his sleeve. “Disease and starvation tend to take the magic right out of romance.”

A small, sour laugh. “In any case,” she continued, “He wouldn’t leave unless I forced his hand and I couldn’t have my father ordering him killed – so I joined the Circle. My parents were denied their ideal grandchildren and Yannis was free to move on. And so please hear me when I say that I understand precisely what it means to be missing someone who you’ve had to let go. For whatever reason.”

His attentioned flicked for but a moment to the dark figure at the forefront of their little group. The night around them was rich with shadows, but he stood as clear as a campfire on a distant ridge with the promise of warmth and a soft bed waiting.

“He’s beautiful.”

Dorian huffed. “One would be hard pressed not to notice.” He paused, turning his attention to the woman at his side again – a woman of surprising depths. Hidden facets, like a gem he hadn’t yet held to the light.

“One _would_ be,” she repeated. Her words were laden with meaning.

She _knew_ , Dorian realized. She had figured it out.

Well, that posed a problem.

“Although,” she continued, “elves do tend to go unnoticed in our country. Few enough eyes would have need to look too closely at your assassin. It’s enough that he’s… affiliated with you. Give our people something shiny and new to gossip about and they have no need to look deeper.”

_Affiliated_. Better that they gossip about Dorian Pavus’s _inclinations_ than wonder for too long about the elf he’d brought with him, she meant.

“Aurelia,” he said finally, “you are entirely too clever.”

“If this is when you tell me that you’ll ruin me if I ever breathe a word, I wouldn’t bother,” she said. The smallest self-satisfied smile quirked her lips before she smoothed it away. “I know trust is a hard thing to come by in our country, but you _can_ trust me in this, Dorian.”

As earnest as usual. He turned her words over in his mind. She hadn’t needed to say a thing.

Dorian supposed that if he believed Tevinter could be a nobler nation, he had to believe her citizens were capable of good. Believing in Aurelia seemed the safest option.

“Shall we keep this conversation between us?” he murmured. “I wouldn’t want to burden minds best kept occupied by other pressing matters.”

Best if Cassius not know, he thought. The more people who were aware of Falon’s true identity, the more danger the truth of the matter posed to everyone involved. And Cassius, though he could be as subtle and clever as any magister, would have a difficult time _not_ using Talen’s presence as a way to court the Inquisition’s support.

“An appropriate measure,” Aurelia said. “I would only go so far as to offer my help if ever you should need it. Either of you.”

“You are a paragon of discretion and generosity, my darling,” Dorian said. So he hoped. If his instincts were wrong in this, it could be disastrous. If they were right, he could have gained a crucial ally should things grow messier than they were already.

In any case, they ran out of empty street to fill with their dangerous talk. Ahead, Vyrania’s estate stood like a beacon, white light streaming from every window as the whole place was illuminated. The light made the house seem stark. Hollow and empty, despite the city guards out front. Surely, a house that held a living owner would have curtains drawn, shutters closed, to guard against prying eyes in the night. Not so here: light spilled nakedly across tidy stones and the courtyard that had only a few weeks past been filled with guests greedy for the drama of the evening.

With a few quick words from Cassius, they were inside.

This house had seen too much death of late. Its resplendent interior was made darker, quieter by the knowledge of what lay inside. A servant, paled and moving with jerky, unsteady movements, led them upstairs to the little library near the back of the house.

Dorian caught Aurelia’s shoulder as they drew to the top of the staircase. “You may wish to wait outside.”

“What I wish is that none of this had happened, but it has, and I will not turn from it.” Her back straightened and, with a sharp intake of breath, she followed Talen into the library.

The scene was entirely as grisly as Dorian had imagined. Vyrania, once so proud and tall, lay crumpled, her corpse sagging in a plush armchair now stained with dark blood. Her head had been hacked from her shoulders and placed in her lap, chest cracked open as one might when butchering an animal.

From between her lips, the thick muscle of her heart protruded, jaw forced open to accommodate the mass of the thing. Her teeth were stained with clotting blood, sinewy muscle keeping the tense line of her mouth yawning wide. Stiffened, blackened fingers held onto her head, which was almost nestled in the folds of her robe. A nearly thoughtful placement, as though she were holding a beloved cat.

Dorian’s stomach turned, bile rising in the back of his throat. “Maker,” breathed Cassius, scrubbing a hand through his hair furiously. He half-turned, looked away, and turned back.

The room smelled of blood, coppery and thick, the air close enough to suffocate. Underneath it all, something mouldered. Dank like the caves underneath old Crestwood, where things better left undisturbed lie in wait.

Talen seemed oblivious to the stunned and horrified reactions of those behind him. He moved forward confidently and crouched near the corpse, reaching out to touch the blistered skin of Vyrania’s hands –

Next to Dorian, a thick and throaty gagging. Aurelia turned and fled from the room, hand clamped over her mouth. “I’ll go after her,” Cassius said. “Perhaps we’d be better suited checking the wards. Vyrania had enough. If we can determine the way in…” He paused. “She’ll want to feel useful, but this is – a bit much.”

“Of course,” Dorian said as Cassius, too, disappeared from the tiny room that smelled of mildew and blood and old books. He could hardly blame her – could hardly blame Cassius for accompanying her. Had he any choice in the matter, he’d rather not be in the foul space either. The sight of the picture before him made his head spin, as if he’d had entirely too much wine and was just counting the moments until he was sick.

If Talen was here at Dorian’s request, however, the very least Dorian could do was stand by his side. How he hated to think that his lover was made of sterner stuff than he was, but, then, Talen was at home with death.

Dorian would never have thought such a thing could be a comfort, and yet it was.

“Well,” Dorian said, moving to one of the large windows overlooking the dark garden. Where he might gain a breath of clean air, dilute the stench of death. Regain control of the nausea roiling inside of him.

His lover rocked back on his heels, rubbing a thumb against his left palm thoughtlessly, eyes skittering over the corpse he sat but inches from with the meticulous scrutiny of a scholar. “If this is in keeping with the others,” he said finally, “whoever’s been wielding the blade doesn’t have experience using it. It’s crude. See,” with a hand, he gestured to the ragged flesh at the base of Vyrania’s head, gummy with black clotted blood, “they had to start and stop. It wasn’t hesitation – look how deep that first cut went – but inexperience. Separating head from body isn’t easy if you’re not using the right weapon and don’t know where to start the cut. Or how to angle it. Too easy to catch on the edge of a vertebrae and wind up with a glancing blow rather than one that _severs_.”

“So not an assassin, then,” said Dorian. He half-turned again, cast his eyes over the courtyard below. A few moments of staring at sundered flesh was enough to warrant a break. Dorian’s self-indulgence: stare at a grotesque body, look out over a dark garden, and so on and so forth.

“No.” The rustling of fabric replaced the stoic silence. Dorian looked back. Talen had reached out and shifted Vyrania’s open-mouthed head, pushing it back further toward her splayed ribs and turning her stiff palms upwards.

It was about as macabre a scene as Dorian could imagine, even after the things he’d seen in Emprise du Lion. Vyrania’s corpse might not be infected with shards of red lyrium, but she’d been just as brutally used and discarded.

“These marks – Did you notice the smell when you came in?” Talen’s fingers traced the blistered skin of Vyrania’s hands with an almost tender touch. Gentle as much as it was curious.

“The smell,” repeated Dorian. “Of, what, death? Blood? You’ll notice I’ve availed myself of the nearest window.”

A firm shake of his head. “No, the –” Talen made a small, frustrated sound. “You know, like the Fade. As if something damp’s been forgotten to moulder and mildew.”

A slight, cool breeze slipped in through the window. A welcome balm to the prickling heat of nausea. His brow furrowed. Yes, he had noticed something like that, although he hadn’t placed it as such.

Again, his lover pressed a thumb hard against the curve of his left palm, face pinched with pain.

That couldn’t be good.

“It’s hurting you,” Dorian said. An imminent sense of danger itched at the back of his mind, the looming sense of things larger than he wanted to deal with. Larger than he was equipped to handle without the steady forces of the Inquisition surrounding them. If this involved the Anchor –

Talen’s hands jerked apart. He stood, a sudden movement. “Nothing like that, Dorian,” with a shake of his head. “It’s just that my hands haven’t fully healed. It’s nothing.”

Dorian felt his eyes narrow. “ _Really_.”

“Yes, really. It’s nothing like – ” He glanced toward the open doorway, where anyone might overhear his words. “Before,” Talen finished blandly. “ _Nothing_ like that.”

He was many things, Dorian had told Talen when they’d first approached Tevinter, but deceptive was not among them. Tonight, he’d been proven wrong on that assertion – but playing nice with a magister was a vastly different thing than lying to a lover. If Talen insisted that this murder had nothing to do with Corypheus or the Breach, Dorian would have to believe him. “You were saying, then, about those marks?”

Talen shrugged, shoulders tight. “It’s called something else to mind. I need to do a little more corroboration before I speculate.”

“And here I was, thinking you enjoyed wild speculation.” A pause. “And that you trusted me enough to share even your least orderly and reasoned of thoughts.”

“ _You’re_ not the one I’m trying to impress with my insightful deductions.” Talen threw a glance beyond the little room again in the direction Cassius had headed.

Ah. Talen had concerns of his own. Yes, it would be hard to worry about impressing a magister when one was playing the assassin – a pale shadow of the man Dorian knew him to be.

Still, they didn’t need Cassius’s seal of approval. Talen certainly didn’t. Dorian could even do without.

“Aren’t I?” Dorian asked, raising an eyebrow. “I should be. I’m by far the most dashing of the parties concerned.”

Behind him, footsteps echoed up the stairs, heavy with weariness. Talen slipped to Dorian’s side, brushing an errant hand across his wrist. The ghost of a touch. “I’m going to check egresses. It should take some time. If Niteo has finished, you might as well head out. I can come by when I’ve checked all the routes and put something together that’s a little more insightful than _an assassin didn’t do it_.”

With that out of the way, and the heat of his palm lingering on Dorian’s wrist, Talen disappeared into the black of the night through the window. To places and along paths unknown. The very moment Talen disappeared from sight, Cassius materialized in the doorway. He didn’t enter the room, eyes pinned on Vyrania’s corpse. Lines formed around his mouth, to the sides of his eyes – things that marked him as wearied, resigned.

“Did your assassin find anything useful?” he asked, rubbing at the side of his neck.

“Vyrania wasn’t murdered by assassins,” Dorian repeated, turning to face Cassius and angling his face so that he could pointedly _not_ look at the corpse in the middle of the room. “It was, he said, clearly someone not used to this kind of work. I don’t suppose you had any luck with her wards?”

“Aurelia found some weaknesses. A few slippages in placement that may have been enough to make the estate vulnerable to certain types of attacks. Nothing that would warrant notice if – well. If there hadn’t been _this_ sort of death inside.”

Wonderful. An incomplete picture, but one that looked in its thumbnail sketch like something very cleverly planning. Subtle, even, except for the vulgar nature of the execution itself. They dealt with a scheme conflicted in its nature. The mind behind it would surely be even more convoluted.

No wonder they’d struggled to put a name to the crimes. None of it made sense, not in Minrathous. Not in these circles.

“Shall we head out, then?” Dorian offered. “We’ve a great deal of ground to make up and must determine a way to do so.”

Cassius sighed. Again, he pressed a hand to his neck, shoulders sagging from their usual straight line. “I’m at a loss, Dorian. Well and truly. Do you think this still worth pursuing? It seems as if we lose a foot for every inch we gain. I’m beginning to wonder –”

Dorian moved across the room, waving a hand dismissively. Once it settled, he grasped Cassius’s shoulder and ushered him away from the foul room and fouler murder. “Nonsense,” he insisted. “If you weren’t on the cusp of amassing significant influence, there would _be_ no challenge. There would be no need to go to these great and grisly lengths to put you off.” Together, they began their way back downstairs through the quiet, empty house more like a mausoleum than a home.

Still, Cassius’s head had dipped, his eyes cast downward.

Dorian tried again. “Besides,” he said, mustering as much confidence as he might, “you’ve got me by your side. I happen to specialize in _impossible tasks_. Did I tell you about the time I helped close the giant hole in the sky? Or fell into the future and then came back to put things right?”

“You may have mentioned them once or twice,” said Cassius. A small, sad smile curved his lips, but was gone in an instant – the hint of a distant sun behind clouds lost even in its revelation. “I suppose this means we’ll need to court the moderate vote a little more seriously. If we run the numbers –”

Numbers were something Dorian could do. “Two-hundred and ninety-one votes as things stand with the absent seats as of yet unfilled – including Aurelia’s. Well,” he gave himself a mental shake, recollecting the darknesses of the evening, “I suppose that’s down to two-hundred and ninety. Who’s to say how the timeline for appointments will progress with the Archon’s absence or which way they’ll fall. You’ve a solid hold on seventy-nine votes. Laetitia is key to an additional forty-three. If Gratian and his conservatives make up a core of one-hundred and five and we haven’t time to decisively win additional votes from the unaffiliated group, you _need_ Laetitia’s support to best Gratian’s numbers. And you know how the unaffiliated magisters are: they blow whichever way the wind favours. Hence our decreasing number of supporters among that crowd. If we count Laetitia among our supporters, however, we should able to pull at least the thirty-eight we’d need for a majority in the Magisterium – excluding the possibility of favourable appointments or Aurelia’s election.”

Cassius drew to a halt in the antechamber, looking out the wide and low window into the empty street beyond the building. “So it’s not that we need Laetitia to simply _abstain_ from affiliation. We need her active support. I’d hoped we might avoid wooing her directly. She’s an unknown quantity.”

“Perhaps,” said Dorian, casting an eye out to the stoic Soporati guards beyond the front door. Aurelia stood to the left side of one of them, watching the dark distance blankly, her mind clearly miles and miles away. “And so we will make her _known_. There’s a ball at Praeclarus Hall later this week to celebrate the youngest Laminus whelp coming of age. You know Laetitia will be there: she went to school with the mother. I’d suggest we attend as well and find out what she requires in order to persuade her followers to cast their votes with you.”

They ducked out the front door one after the other. Aurelia didn’t turn when they exited, hands knotted in front of her. The halo of dark hair around her head looked almost unkempt, something wholly out of keeping with what Dorian knew of her. She rubbed a hand distantly against her cheek.

“Come now,” said Cassius, draping an arm around the girl’s narrow shoulders. “Vyrania would be _furious_ if she thought you’d thrown in the towel. Did you know what she told me she thought of you after I brought you along to her estate that first afternoon? Remember that one of her flowering trees had just come into bloom, and she insisted we traipse through her garden to have a look…”

He continued prattling on, filling the night’s emptiness with warm recollections. Dorian’s thoughts were already on Praeclarus Hall, how he might be able to get an invitation this late in the game, what he expected Laetitia might want Cassius to lend support to if they needed her faction’s votes.

They would have a great deal more planning to do before the night was through and Dorian might finally retreat to _The Dragon’s Heart_ and get the whole truth of Vyrania’s death from his lover.

It would be a long, dark night, but he had hope for what might be on the other side.

*

Talen crouched on a rooftop, pressed deep into the shadows and watching the empty garden below.

None of it was good. And this new connection – to betrayed slaves on the run, to black market rivalries, to new and dangerous magic – was startling enough to make him feel as if he’d stepped out into thin air when he’d expected the sturdy ground before him. A sickening lurch and the realization that he stood in the middle of a maelstrom larger than he’d anticipated.

Talen dropped down from the peak of the roof, sliding to a balcony and then to the street below. He needed to head back to Niteo’s place and recount what little he had been able to piece together.

That he’d encountered this same peculiar magic earlier, that it was somehow tied to escaped slaves and opiates and an odd new power, was something he would have to share. Well, some of it at least. Dorian needed to know _who_ was behind these murders. The how of it might not matter as much – but if Talen was correct, if his suspicions panned out, someone from the peaks of the city was dirtying their hands in inter-faction competition by the docks. There had to be a reason.

Still, he’d learned enough in this past week to know definitively that he didn’t want his lover involving himself in the dirtier parts of this scheme. That was work Talen would handle on his own.

And he was now on his own. Entirely.

After his last job, Talen had woken, feeling gritty-eyed and bruised down to his soul, and immediately headed to the Society house. If he was to determine who’d been involved in the deaths of the slaves, what product the black market merchants were smuggling, _why_ these two factions were in such ferocious competition, he needed to understand the lay of the land in Minrathous’s underground.

He’d arrived to the Society house to find Proxima waiting, perched in one of the hard and ornate chairs in the front reception room. Her fingers tapped a slow pattern on its arm, the only sound in the entire house, which always wore a mantle of silence. Of death.

He stiffened as soon as he came through the door, even before he saw her. The air tasted of danger, sharp and potent. A sixth sense he’d developed in his years in the woods. When wolves watched in the distance and considered attack with no hint but the prickling at the back of his neck.

“Come,” she’d said, gesturing with a hand to a seat at her side. “We must speak.”

An ominous greeting, but one Talen couldn’t refuse. He eased himself down, the stiff chair cold underneath him. In the dim room, he could still make out the tension cording Proxima’s neck. A tiny, subtle tell for a woman usually so placid. Darker shadows gathered in the hollow of her throat.

He didn’t say anything.

“Two things have set my mind ill at ease,” Proxima had said, the words spoken precisely, almost delicately. “I’ve word that your name, Falon Sabrae, is on the tips of many tongues. You’ve been taken note of. The company you keep, your former affiliations – these are things of great interest to certain persons. To be a successful representative of the Society, you must be invisible. You are not.”

Much as Esidor had said. Talen swallowed, his throat tight. She was cutting him loose, he knew that much, but how deep that cut would go remained to be seen. “And the second?”

Proxima shifted, folding one leg over the other as her shoulders angled toward him.

A chill inched its way down his neck and along the skin of his arms. She’d only shifted, but had transformed into a weapon. The blade from the shadows, a pure extension of purpose. “Your contract was concluded last night,” murmured the head of the assassin’s guild, “and yet you asked Iro for information rightly beyond your purview.”

The muscles of Talen’s body tensed, coiling into springs waiting for action. He steadied his breath, refused to let his eyes skitter over her form in fear of what blow might come next. Looking afraid would only make it worse – just, he reminded himself, like those hours in the forest. “There was something very odd,” he began, “about the warehouse, about –”

“You know the writ, child. _Ours is not to ask why_. A holy charge.” Her eyes had flashed. In a moment, her hand shot out and caught his wrist, pinching hard against the bones beneath the skin before he had a chance to recoil.

He stilled completely. His pulse hammered in his ears, quick and unsteady. A wild beast caught in a trap, realizing that struggle would only make things worse.

Talen should have known better than to pry. Not with Proxima, not with the Society of the Black Orchid.

Her fingers remained fast around his wrist. “You will turn your mind from these matters. You will leave the Society house and not return. Do you understand?”

“Of course,” he had said, voice low and insistent.

Proxima released him. He took his moment and left, flying out of the chair and through the front door. His heart still pounded inside his chest, skin prickling with the sense of danger, the knowledge that he could very easily have never again walked out of that house. It had taken him nearly the entire journey back to the hotel to stop looking over his shoulder, for sudden sounds – a merchant calling out a price in shrill tones, melons slipping from their pile and spilling across stone – to stop turning his head, fingers itching for his dagger.

For all he’d said he understood, though, for the insistent fear he felt when thinking of Proxima’s wrath, Talen would not, _could not_ , comply. He would never return again to the Society house, true enough, but he would not turn aside from the questions that loomed large before him.

Still, an assassin without dossiers in a city hostile to his very existence did not make a terribly effective spy. An Inquisitor without his spymaster was hobbled from the start. He tried for several days to find information of his own accord, lurking in the shadows of the docks, retracing the route he and Rilere had taken.

Much to his frustration, lips were firmly fastened when it came to naming the two organizations in question and those at their heads.

He’d tried to at least find the name of the opiate in his possession, scraping desperately for whatever connection he could find. He waited outside a tavern near the harbour, one with dancing slaves and known to cater to more wealthy Soporati, purveyors of all sorts of goods. Finally, the man he’d seen drawn into one or two quiet recesses with wide-eyed slaves from Altus households emerged. His fingers glittered with rings, hair shorn short but styled carefully.

He drew to the man’s side as the dealer began his trip toward the hotel in which he was staying. “ _I’ve been sent to you_ ,” he began in Tevene.

The man seemed unconcerned to have an elf materialize at his elbow. He cast a glance at Talen from behind drooped eyelids lined in gold. “Yes? And what might you have been sent to retrieve?” Spoken in the common tongue.

Very well. Talen continued to play the confused slave, dropping his head to seem less than he was. “The name is unfamiliar. I’ve only seen what it looks like – she told me to get more and sent me out of the estate.”

“You would be new to her, I take it?” the man offered, sighing breezily. “Let me give you a small bit of advice then, _servus_ : never give indication of whom you serve. Now I know you’ve come from an estate and are owned by a woman, and here you are, seeking illicit substances. How very shocking. And practice your Tevene – your accent is terrible.”

He felt himself bristle, but tamped it down, smothering the fire of outrage crackling inside his bones. “Thank you,” Talen said to the man who thought him a slave. Who thought him stupid.

“Tell me what you need.” The man’s gait was lazy, slow and long strides with his hands tucked inside his pockets except when he reached to brush a curl from his eyes.

“It’s a liquid, white, inside of a glass phial. It seems to _move_. Entirely on its own. She said –” He stopped, corrected himself, “I was tasked with finding more, but I’ve never seen the like.”

The man shot him a sharp glance and drew to a stop. He jerked his hands from his pockets, crossing his arms. “If that’s what you look for, look elsewhere, _servus_. I’m too clever to get caught in the middle of that spat.”

Good. Talen sculpted his face into a blank surprise, distant concern. “What _spat_? I can’t go back without it. If there’s someone else I need to speak with – ”

A laugh, bright and jagged. The man shifted his weight. “If your master’s come by that stuff, she’ll know that it’s not the sort of thing you can just pick up on the streets. A man would hardly lurk on street corners with pockets full of rubies and opals, now, would he? She has sent you on an impossible task. To put her in better mood, however, I’ve several things on offer. You have a beautiful face. It would be a pity if it were damaged.”

He’d ended up buying some opiate cultivated from wyvern venom to placate the man, to make his story seem more plausible. So it was that Talen had learned enough to know that the crates he’d seen were equivalent to a small kingdom’s worth of gold. That the stoppered phial he still had in his possession might be traded to a heavy precious stone should he know the right people. People who did not deal in dark alleyways or empty streets at night.

That much wealth tended to shut the lips of those who might otherwise name the manufacturers and distributors.

Which was why, after his fruitless searching, Talen had turned to letter writing. He sent a short brief to Varric, asking if he’d heard anything about a new opiate on the market and inquiring as to whether he knew anything about the sigil Talen had encountered in the warehouse. One of the players on the market was signified by that bird. Varric might well know.

Someone had sold those slaves down the river – another puzzle he would see solved, but lacked the resources to solve at the moment. _And, Varric_ , he’d written in neat and precise strokes, _I’m hoping you might get in touch with your friend from Tevinter for me. It looks as if there may be slaves on the run who were promised freedom but betrayed. I wonder if he might know who’s involved in smuggling slaves out of the Imperium and if more have gone missing – have just never shown up as planned, perhaps._

Talen had enough information to inquire as to the one organization, but he needed the name of both of them. With that in mind, he wrote a second letter to Leliana. Talen hardly expected her to have much time for him now that she was leading from the Sunburst Throne, but he had hope she might at least name for him the two wealthiest black market organizations in Minrathous. Leliana had people everywhere. Minrathous would be no different. With her fingers on the pulse of every nation, she might have the answers he needed to truly get started – if she could spare a few moments for him.

All of it was a tangle: Talen no longer had access to his Society house connections, something which he’d pointedly not told Dorian. He hardly needed to be chastised for diving into waters more deep and dangerous than he understood, as Dorian would say, not when he had no choice in the matter. All he had was a phial of an opiate worth a dizzying amount, a sense that somehow escaping slaves were crucial to the puzzle, a vicious underworld rivalry, and now a connection between a new, foul magic and the brutal assassinations that were centred around Cassius. Like radiating lines of darkness and death. Vyrania’s death was the final piece of this vile pattern, a tangle of intentions and schemes that Talen couldn’t even begin to fathom.

Somehow, all of it was connected. For now, it felt like knucklebones that had been cast in some attempt to divine the future. A scattered collection of meaningless, dead facts that had once perhaps formed something cohesive. Whether or not that could be reimagined from its constituents remained to be seen.

He arrived at Niteo’s estate, where an older servant ushered him back through the house so very decadent in its decor, so large and sumptuous from floor to ceiling. When he’d arrived with Dorian earlier in the evening, Talen had nearly felt oppressed under the weight of all the gold, the sparkling lights, the polished marble floors.

He’d thought he had seen finery already in Minrathous. He had been mistaken.

Voices buzzed from the back study. Talen stepped through the doorway to find the three Tevinter mages bent over sheets of paper, tallying, it looked like, numbers and names into columns. Arrows shifting certain persons to one place or another, some scripts scratched out only to be written in again.

“ – said that he would only guarantee his vote if you came down one way or the other about his family’s conflict with the Aristiles. And by one way or the other, Soridite _clearly_ meant _if you denounce them in every which way and put a curse on all their descendents_ , so –” Dorian broke off, eyes jumping to where Talen stood just inside the doorway. “Ah, you’ve come.”

The other two turned to look at him as well. “Have you any further insight?” The quill Cassius had been drawing across paper paused, as the man fixed his attention on Talen, forehead crinkled.

There was a space next to Dorian on the chaise where Talen might sit. Instead, he remained standing, feet firmly in place. If he was meant to seem Dorian’s companion, his _assistant_ , he had to know his place. His domain was death. Here, Tevinter politicking took up every iota of thought. This place was one that, in its burnished metals and walls heavy with books and precisely organized papers, perfectly reflected the man who had turned the question on Talen. Who still provoked in him a small, dark flicker of something ugly.

“There were two of them,” he said, hands still at his sides. “I imagine they came in through the front door – she would have known them – but they departed out the back. A rather clumsy escape. There were broken branches everywhere.”

“Two?” Cassius’s eyebrows shot up as he looked to his fellow mages. A reaction for them, not for Talen. “ _Really_? So this little plot is more of a conspiracy than a single-minded campaign.”

“I already spoke with the servants,” Aurelia said. The skin underneath her eyes was puffy, but she remained alert and animated. “Vyrania had turned them out for the day. She likes – _liked_ – to give them some time away from the estate.”

Dorian’s brow furrowed. “Which I’m sure anyone she would let inside would know. With that, and the wards you found that had been shifted _just enough_ to render them ineffective in the back corner of the house, I’d say it’s safe to deduce that whoever committed this act knew her and her estate well.” Dorian sighed, then, leaning back. His head tipped back, exposing the long line of this throat.

Talen noticed, of course. His attention caught for a moment on the shape of Dorian’s jaw, the dusky colour of his skin, the place where his collar parted just enough to reveal a sliver of warm skin at the base of his throat.

His skin prickled with that odd awareness. Talen looked up to see Cassius watching pointedly.

Talen shifted, suddenly uncomfortable, although he’d done nothing wrong. Something about Cassius managed to set him on edge, to make him feel very small and insignificant indeed – as if the ruse for the magister’s benefit had more truth to it than Talen had thought. He turned his mind back to the task at hand. “There’s also the question of the type of magic that was used,” he said.

Dorian, thankfully, picked up the torch. Talen couldn’t very well start describing how the Fade felt, not without revealing a great deal more than he ought to. He could only use _Dalish_ as an excuse so often before rousing suspicion. “Yes, Falon noticed that the marks on the hands were rather odd. Like she’d been scorched. Neither of you were in there terribly long, but there was also a certain _smell_ – you know, that musk when the Veil is worn thin.”

The other two mages straightened immediately. “I’m sorry. Scorched?” Aurelia leaned forward a little, attention pinned on Talen. “Blackened, perhaps? Like,” she rolled her neck as she searched for the appropriate descriptor, “oh, ink that’s been spilled and smudged? Perhaps along the lines of veins and arteries.”

A surprisingly accurate description from a woman who hadn’t been able to remain in the room. Talen jerked his chin down.

“Surely not,” said Cassius. His voice was a low rumble, hushed, as if he hardly wanted to give voice to the thought. “Aurelia, you aren’t suggesting –”

“I’ve just read a paper that theorizes that – well, because of the _Fade rifts_ , of course – should someone gain enough control over their manipulations of the Veil, should they have enough power and training, it might be possible –”

“It wasn’t a rift,” Talen said, sharper than he’d intended. That much he knew. Though something of rifts echoed in this magic, it was definitely _not_ the same thing he’d dealt with for years down south. His hand hadn’t yet seen cause to emit green light. That would be cause for an even graver concern.

Aurelia stopped, blinked at him from across the room.

He had just made a mistake, he realized. A properly humbled elf of no social standing wouldn’t be so sharp in his correction, nor so certain.

“Well, no, it wouldn’t be,” she said insistently, moving forward as if he hadn’t stumbled, so quick that it almost seemed as if he hadn’t interjected, “but someone might be able to create tiny little cracks in the Veil – like pricking a wineskin with a needle. Should that be possible, one might control the smallest sliver of the Fade for a short time before stoppering it again. And if you’ve seen those black marks and if they followed veins –”

“It would suggest blight, yes,” finished Cassius, his eyes dark and clouded. “And if they’ve managed to make this theorizing a reality, it’s likely we’ll be looking at mages accruing power through… questionable means.”

Questionable means. That would mean blood magic.

“It would hardly be Tevinter if someone weren’t trying to do something evil with blood magic,” said Dorian, giving voice to Talen’s thought with tight words he’d no doubt intended to be airy. “And here I was, thinking it had almost been too long since I’d had to chase after maleficarum who think that _summoning demons and blight_ is a clever idea.”

Blood magic. The slaves, promised freedom and then secreted away – If they were being used as a means to _fuel_ this magic…

But first Talen would need to identify if these slaves were part of a larger pattern: promised freedom and made captives. He knew nothing of the parties involved, nor their intentions. If he was correct, however, the slaves would be part of a grander scheme.

A thought that knotted his gut. That set his mind on fire in a blaze of righteous fury.

The two things had to be linked in some way, that much was clear. A new, dangerous magic – one that might very well be based in creating rifts – linking to the assassinations _and_ the black market machinations? Too strange a connection to be mere coincidence. If he could solve one puzzle, the other might follow. Although suddenly the whole thing seemed far larger and more dangerous than it had before, like standing on a precipice overlooking an abyss. At its depths lay monsters, waiting for an errant step, a foolish stumble.

He would need to write another letter to pass off to the Inquisition agent who served as his contact in Minrathous. This was something his advisors ought to know.

*

The dust settled as dust tended to and, as with its real world counterpart, their long night of conversations felt Dorian feeling somewhat shabby and in need of a good clean. With a plan of action firmly in place – a plan that admittedly amounted to little more than _determine what Laetitia wants and placate her in a way that maintains our core values and foci_ – he’d taken his leave.

Another conversation awaited him at the hotel. Though decidedly less oriented toward politics and placating magisters, it was frustrating in an entirely different way.

“I’m sorry. I fear I must have misheard you. You’ve been _let go_ from the Society? And you’ve decided that the best way to respond is to, what, involve yourself in a black market feud? To track down _escaping slaves_ who may very well be the _fuel_ maleficarum are using?”

Talen rubbed a hand across his face wearily. He at least had the decency to look chastised. “I asked too many questions. It was stupid. I didn’t think strategically and have lost out on a major source of information. But obviously I was on to something, Dorian – something worth pursuing. I haven’t put anything together concretely, so I just need some more time and I’ll get you answers.”

Dorian laughed, because it was truly, wretchedly _laughable_. This whole thing from start to finish. He turned his face away, paced over to the balcony shrouded in its gauzy curtains. Shielding them from the dark city beyond.

Maker preserve him. Dorian had brought the Inquisitor to Minrathous, and it had taken him but a few weeks to fall into a plot involving smuggling, escaped slaves, and a possibly new and very dangerous magic. And that wasn’t counting the assassinations that were happening all around Dorian.

The _last_ thing Talen ought to be doing was poking around the Tevinter black market and sniffing out escaped slaves. A place in which competition and questions almost always resulted in grisly deaths, where those who searched a little too fervently were forever removed of their eyes or had tonuges plucked from mouths so that they couldn’t spread word of what they’d seen. A world in which an _elf_ who did the investigating would likely end up shackled and branded, lost forever to the fouler depths of the slave trade.

Dorian pinched the bridge of his nose. “I should say we’ve enough to deal with by half without having you provoking an assassin’s guild or the incredibly wealthy lords of the Tevinter underworld.”

When he looked back up, Talen’s expression had flattened into something that looked as brittle as an Orlesian mask. Dangerous in what it hid, what it would not give voice to. “I thought you’d be pleased that I’m able to help. You just _said_ , Dorian –”

“Yes, yes, I know exactly what I said,” Dorian snapped, pivoting to stare at his lover across the room. “That I was pleased to have you with me. I’m _less_ pleased about the sort of danger you’re putting yourself in.”

Talen’s brow furrowed. He leaned forward on the chaise, bracing an elbow against his knee, eyes narrowing. “The sort of danger _I’m_ putting myself in? You’re the one who’s allied himself with a man whose affiliates have a shocking tendency to turn up headless and gutted!”

“There is an inherent danger to challenging the status quo,” Dorian said, arms crossed hard against his chest. “That hardly means it’s not worthwhile.”

“Which is precisely what I’m saying, Dorian.” He rubbed a hand hard across his forehead. When he looked back up, however, none of the tension had left his features. If anything, he looked _sharper_ , angrier. “Doing good is _worthwhile_ , and if someone is promising escaped slaves freedom and is using them for their own purposes? That is _worth_ uncovering and correcting – and it may even lead us to the mind behind the deaths you’re more concerned with.”

He didn’t _understand_ , this man for whom throwing himself into danger was as banal as making tea. But Dorian would make him understand. He _had_ to. “It’s a very different thing for me to put myself in harm’s way – and, believe me, I value my own head enough to be cautious – and for _you_ to do so.”

“It’s not,” said Talen flatly.

“It _is_ , and you’re well aware of that.” Dorian prowled in closer, closing the yawning space between them. His voice dropped to a whisper, thin and waspish, as he hovered over the Inquisitor. “If you’re hurt, the ramifications will be vast. There will be soldiers marching straight up the Imperial Highway, the south will be thrown into _chaos_ while nations ready themselves for war. You should never have come; it was remarkably foolish to risk all of that on my behalf.”

Darkness flashed in Talen’s eyes, his knuckles whitening as his hands clasped into fists. “And on _your_ behalf, Dorian,” he said, pronouncing the words precisely, “I would rain down fire should anything happen to you. Don’t think I wouldn’t lead those armies myself. So I’d suggest you stop pretending that it’s better for you to be at risk than it is for me, because it isn’t. The consequences are the same.”

A dark fire flared in Dorian’s chest, as sudden and deadly as a searing glyph that had been placed beneath an unsuspecting target. An absolutely unacceptable notion, the Inquisitor throwing all of Thedas into chaos again because of _him_. It could not stand. Dorian would not have that on his head. “That’s _absurd_. It is _selfish_ in its _selflessness_ ,” he spat. “You’re –”

“What? Foolish?” Talen surged to his feet, pressing in close. “All that for one man? _Yes_ , all that for _you_. So, as we’re stuck here until your magister can puzzle his way to a _better Tevinter_ , I’ll do what I can to help those who might not otherwise live to see this new nation they’ve been promised. In doing so, I help you as well – so you can stop acting as if I’m ruining everything for you. I’m not.”

He was too close, and Dorian’s mind too filled with flashfire. He turned his back to Talen, a headache starting to pound at the back of his head.

Was he supposed to feel flattered that this man would start a war on his behalf? How could it ever be comforting to have that particular weight added to one’s responsibilities? Help change the Magisterium, Dorian! Eliminate slavery over tea, Dorian! And while you’re at it, you’d best remember not to get hurt, else the Imperium is going to end up in a long and ugly war with nearly every southern nation. All that lovely peace you’ve been working for will be shattered because you couldn’t keep yourself from harm and you’ve a single-minded lover with a little too much power at his fingertips.

Maker help him, sometimes he felt as if he were bearing the weight of the world. All of this _love_ and _devotion_ were well and good until they became enough to smother.

The silence grew thick in the suite. Dorian was _tired_ and he wanted to go to bed. Desperately.

A sigh behind him, weary. “I need to write to Skyhold about all of this, of course, but we have to be careful. You’re right: the relationship between the Inquisition and the Imperium requires management.”

Another situation that required a delicate touch, lest everything fall to shit. “Yes,” Dorian said. “We can’t exactly have Inquisition forces barging into Tevinter, proclaiming holy cause. The Inquisition arriving to stop slavery and blood magic and fix our unrepentant Imperial ways? That might cause a few problems, especially given Radonis’s… concerns.”

“I think it best if we send an edited picture of event to Josephine and Cullen.” A tentative hand settled on the hard line of Dorian’s shoulder, thumb pressing carefully to the curve of his shoulderblade. “It’s best if I look into things quietly. I promised Josie I wouldn’t create an international incident. If we can sort this all out, just the two of us –”

Fires could only burn for so long until they’d eaten through all the air available to fan the flames. Perhaps it was the gentle touch or Talen’s acknowledgement that they were in this together. Either way, just like that, the fury that boiled in Dorian’s blood gutted out, leaving only a weary darkness. He sighed, felt his shoulders drop under Talen’s palm, and turned to look his lover in the eye.

“I see no other choice, not unless I give up on everything I came here for. Not unless we turn around right now and leave for the south.”

And there wasn’t really another choice. They could inform the Inquisition, but couldn’t _involve_ the Inquisition. If Dorian still wanted to see Tevinter made better – and Maker knows he’d seen enough darknesses to stress the extent to which it _needed_ transformation – this was their path forward.

Talen’s expression was soft. He reached to press his palm, warm and humming with that distant link to the Fade, against the side of Dorian’s neck. “This still matters to you, Dorian. So we’ll stay.”

It should have been a comfort, but nothing about this _could_ be comforting. All it was hard angles, hidden blades, the constant threat of danger. With black thoughts, he headed to bed, feeling settled on nothing except the need for caution. For both of them and in all things.

And it would seem that caution was warranted. They didn’t rise until midday, sunlight already creeping across the floor of the front reception room in golden rectangles, when a knock sounded at the suite door.

Dorian’s eyes eased open. “ _Kaffas_ ,” he breathed, as Talen rolled out of bed next to him, scrubbing his marked hand hard across his face. “You’ll need to –”

“I’m already going,” said his lover, who headed right into the darkened alcove that would mark him a slave were Dorian not so insistent that he was anything but. He shut the door behind him gently. So willing to play his part.

Dorian stared at the ceiling for a moment. A quiet rapping came from the door again and he begrudgingly slid from bed, pausing to pull on a silken dressing gown before padding on bare feet to the front of the suite.

Petra stood in a thin shift, eyes fastened neatly on the ground. As soon as the door opened, she smiled up at him, at once warm and perfectly demure. “Good morning, Master Pavus. My sincerest apologies in disturbing you. A letter has arrived bearing the Imperial seal.” She held out a little silver tray. Resting at its centre was a black envelope, sealed with golden wax impressed with the draconic crest of the Archon.

Well. How interesting. He murmured his thanks and took the envelope, waving away her offer for a late breakfast in favour of sending up the strong, black tea he’d grown to favour in the south. Something with enough punch to bring him back to the realm of the living more surely than one of his own spells. As a bonus, tea would leave his mind intact when necromancy couldn’t, and he suspected he would need his wits about him to deal with this letter and its contents.

He ducked his head in the attending slave’s quarters, where Talen had folded himself under a thin blanket, face buried into the plush pillow at the head of the narrow bed. “I’ve a letter bearing the Archon’s seal. Perhaps you’re curious as to its contents?”

Immediately, Talen was up. He swung his feet over the side of the bed, tugging the blanket around his shoulders. “Of course we can’t spend the whole morning in bed,” he said with a sigh. “But I had hoped we might have a bit more time.”

“We are but at the whims of the empire,” Dorian said. Talen stood and stretched before he folded the blanket around him again and they trailed out to the smaller, more secluded reception room.

“If the whims of the empire could consider the effect this lack of sleep has on me, I’d be much happier. You’ve sent for tea, _ma vhenan_?” The last words came out half-yawn as Talen sunk down into a chair, legs folding beneath him. By the time Dorian had sat down in the chair to his lover’s side, however, Talen’s eyes were alert, even if his hair was crumpled.

The envelope felt heavy in Dorian’s hands. He turning the black paper over in his palms.

“Well?”

“A moment, please,” said Dorian. “It’s not every day that a pariah receives mail from the Archon himself. However dashing and invaluable an asset to his nation he may be.”

Another quiet knock. The tea. This time, Talen headed to the door.

By the time he’d returned, Dorian had already cracked the seal and scanned the letter with its little jagged letters and precisely worded invitation.

“ _Well_?” Talen repeated, setting the tray down on the round silver table between them and wasting no time in pouring them each a cup. The tea smelled bitter and potent. Precisely what Dorian would need.

“I’ve been invited to a meeting in private chambers this evening with Magister Niteo,” Dorian said lightly, setting the letter down and picking up his tea. “How novel it is that I should be meeting the Archon and discussing, ah –” he checked the letter, “ _matters of state, Senate, and southern politics_ , when you’re hidden right under Radonis’s nose.”

His lover’s forehead creased as he drew the cup of steaming tea toward his chest. “You’re to meet with the Archon? I thought he was in Carastes, wining and dining potential trading partners.”

Little surprise that Talen should have his fingers at the pulse of the nation. How he came by half the information that dropped from his mouth was something beyond Dorian. But, then, a man with mysteries was a man with a great deal of allure. Not that Talen needed any more of that – he was already too capable of turning Dorian’s mind from the business of forging allegiances to matters decidedly more carnal. “As did we both. It would appear we were, each of us, mistaken.”

“You don’t suppose – what did he say, exactly? Matters of southern politics? He doesn’t mean the Inquisition.” Talen blew air across the surface of the tea, steam billowing over the lip of the delicate cup.

“I’d imagine that is precisely what he means,” Dorian said, the wheels of his mind already turning. “You saw the fuss made at the border. He’s _concerned_ about the ramifications of withdrawing from alliance and will no doubt with to make use of my inordinate wisdom on the topic.”

Talen made a low sound in his throat, thoughtful. “You’ll be careful, though, when you speak to him.”

Something sharp and prickly lodged inside Dorian’s breastbone. As if he were the one needing to be tempered, to be reminded that _caution_ was of the utmost importance here. “Yes, I’ll be _careful_. If only you were equally cautious and gave up your bizarre obsession with opiates and runaway slaves. I might even be a happy man.”

“Dorian,” said Talen, voice low. In his eyes, a warning.

Yes, there were some things about which they could not apparently speak. A sour smile curled his lips. “Write your letter to your advisors. I’ve a meeting to ready myself for apparently. I’ll naturally need to convene with Cassius beforehand.”

With that, he withdrew from the room. By the time he’d finished primping and preening, selecting a remarkably expensive robe in white and silver – he might as well appear the paragon, were he to be interrogated on the Inquisition – his lover had disappeared.

How Talen managed to ready himself for whatever it was that he attended to without spending a single moment encroaching on Dorian’s own routines remained a mystery. And yet he did, leaving but a simple note indicating that he’d gone _out_.

A master of precision and specificity. Out.

He’d finished the note with two words that soothed at least a little bitterness from Dorian’s heart, diluting his frustration down to a lingering, distant memory. _Yours, always_.

Dorian shook his head, thumb brushing over the letters. If only Talen were a little more his and a little less _all the noble causes in the world_ , they might have fewer reasons to argue – but to remove his lover’s heart of gold would be to remove the core of the man himself.

If he insisted on involving himself in black market rivalries and underground slave smuggling rings, at least Talen had the sense to write to those who might be able to intervene even at a great distance. Even if he was careful in how he described the events in which they’d found themselves mired, his advisors would see the need to bring it all to a halt. To beseech the Inquisitor to only go digging so far as was necessary. To remind him it was not his duty to right all the injustices in Tevinter.

Talen might not listen to Dorian’s cautionary words, but surely Josephine could bend his ear. _Certainly_ Cassandra.

In any case, if they were to determine who was so very desperate to stop Cassius from gaining power with the Imperial Senate, Dorian would need his lover’s assistance. As much as he was loathe to admit it. As much as he felt the hypocrisy of that need: stay entirely out of things, amatus, until I decide that you could be useful; even then, don’t look too closely. Do only as I say and never a thing beyond.

Ugly thoughts to be nursing when such an intriguing day lay before him. Today, the Archon waited.

When he arrived at Cassius’s estate, it was to find the man in as much surprise as Dorian, though he looked a little worse for the wear of the previous night’s sleepless hours. Certainly less refreshed than Dorian and not nearly so perfectly put together.

“He’s riding back from Carastes today to meet with us,” Cassius said in lieu of greeting.

“How very generous.” Though such a piece of information set Dorian’s nerves on edge. If the Archon chose to leave the coastal city and make for Minrathous immediately, he must have pressing concern. “I take it news of Vyrania’s death will have reached his ears?”

“It’s what I suspect as well.” Dorian followed Cassius to the small garden behind the estate, where his wife smiled in greeting before retreating back within the house, a hand pressed thoughtlessly to her swollen belly. A woman who had come with considerable name and fortune, but was too soft for her husband’s endless politicking. Not too soft to bear him an heir.

The sky overhead stretched grey, threatening rain. The morning’s sunshine had been a lie, however beautiful. Dark stormclouds gathered on the horizon. “Vyrania was key in seeing the man to power,” Cassius continued, taking seat in a small alcove where a spread of cheeses, olives, and thin breads had been laid out. “He’s certainly made note of the other deaths, but this one will cause him alarm. You know he’s not secure in his position. In losing Vyrania, he loses a pillar of his seat. The whole thing threatens to topple.”

Dorian reached out and plucked an olive from the tray, ripened to a deep black. “Perhaps he seeks someone to shore him up on that side. It’s well known that she thought you worthwhile.”

“It could be the one spot of light that comes from the endless darkness of her death,” Cassius said, drizzling a piece of bread with golden oil infused, from the looks of it, with rosemary. “Let’s hope he turns his mind to such matters and away from his fixation with the Inquisition. And the imagined retribution he waits for.”

The remainder of the day was whittled away with lining up invitations to the ball at Praeclarus Hall later in the week. Through no small miracle, Dorian wrested three from the grip of the hostess. A victory due in large part to a promise that he would regale Lady Laminus with the ins and outs of Halamshiral’s finest celebrations so that she might impress some incoming Orlesian guests by outdoing the late Empress. All neatly done and arranged in time for them to strike out to the Senate and the waiting Archon.

The Senate itself was much as Dorian remembered: a large, sprawling building, replete with towering columns that crowned a long, perfectly white staircase leading to the pinnacle of the hill. The height of Tevinter’s glories and potential and the arena that displayed its basest corruptions. Both aspects of his nation embodied in one place.

They were greeted by a company of the Archon’s personal guards, each dressed in hard armours that jutted with obsidian spikes– at a distance, the epaulets and gauntlets looked nearly soft, like that awful bedraggled crime against fashion that Cullen wore. Up close, however, the light gleamed off every inch and proclaimed the armour ready to draw blood.

These guards would have had their tongues removed. They kept the Archon’s secrets as a sacred calling. When the man himself died, whether by foul deed or natural cause, they would join him, thrust from life on their own dark blades.

“A grim enough greeting,” Dorian said, ducking his head near Cassius’s as they were led through the large first chamber of the Imperial hall, lined with statues of Archons whose enemies had not obliterated their effigies upon ascension to the position. Proper Tevinter Archons didn’t feel the need to remove the echo of their competitors, instead preferring to have visitors gaze upon the visages they had defeated through intellect and talent.

“The Archon is a sensible man,” said Cassius, hands clasped behind his back, “but even he cannot escape the necessary pomp and circumstance of his position.”

They passed through the Publicanum, more a library than a council chamber, where elected representatives did their work while the Magisterium made decisions that actually had impact. At the back of the room stood a towering set of doors, bright gold inlaid with ebony. A dragon circled the world, snarling. Its flame was inlaid drakenstone, set through with rubies that caught the light of the glowstones lighting the hall.

An Empire that would rule again. The crowning glory of all the world, Thedas and beyond.

Not a sentiment that Dorian shared, nor did Cassius, who favoured tempering the blind ambition of those of less worthy mind – but it was what lay in Tevinter’s heart.

Glory, power, and dominance.

The centre of the Imperium’s government lay in the room that followed, a huge, circular space crowned by an impossibly high dome. Columns again ringed the outside wall, distant moonlight filtering down from the glass cut into complex geometric shapes so that the floor was a dance of shadow and light. Lanterns hung from each column and were placed periodically on the long tables that lined the room in concentric rings.

The room was centered around a platform, where stood the Archon’s dias. And the Archon himself.

Radonis turned when they entered, escorted by his silent, dark guard.

Once upon a time, Dorian had met Radonis at a party. They’d both been a great deal younger, but the man had still made an impression. Now he looked every inch the leader of the Magisterium. Dressed in endless, sumptuous black and gold, the lines of his face speaking of wisdom rather than weariness, with a shrewd, pale gaze entirely like that of a viper lying in wait. His hair was shorn close to his skull, the mantle of his position – a golden and black stave crowned with a dragon shaped from silverite, obsidian, and emerald – held firmly at his side.

Despite himself, Dorian felt a chill crawl down the back of his neck as the guard slipped from formation to stand at the edge of the impossibly grand room.

“Magister Niteo,” said the Archon, who could, with a word, have both of their heads. Not that Dorian wouldn’t put up a decent fight, but it would be one that was doomed to fail. “And Master Pavus, once of Minrathous but so very recently of Skyhold. I trust that my summons did not see you to too great an inconvenience.”

“Not at all, Imperial Archon.” Cassius came to a stop at the foot of the platform, Dorian drawing to his side. The position was clearly meant to elevate the man before them, a thin, dark figure crowned with silver moonlight and crackling with hidden energy to whom they had to, by the physical lay of the room, _look up_. “And I imagine you had the greater inconvenience, travelling from Carastes in but a single day.”

Radonis’s lips thinned. “An unfortunate journey that was nonetheless necessary. Word came to me of Vyrania’s murder in the early hours of the morning – black wings bringing black news indeed. But,” and he gestured with one hand toward the back of the Senate hall, “we might discuss these matters in chambers. Shall we?”

They followed dutifully as the Archon, flanked by his honour guard, entered the private rooms past the concentric rings of tables and grand columns. He walked on stiff legs, his gait that of a man far older in years than Radonis.

_Interesting_ , thought Dorian. Perhaps the man grew more timid, more afraid, not only because of his withdrawal from alliance with the Inquisition but because of infirmity.

In any case, a frightened Archon could be a pliant one, so long as fear did not get the best of him. If Dorian and Cassius might exploit the man’s weaknesses and make them points of strength.

The chambers into which Radonis led them were bright, lit with glowing white lanterns. A table, seemingly cut from a single tree that must have had a trunk to rival any he’d seen in the Emerald Graves, dominated the room. The Archon stepped behind it, settling down in a narrow, high-backed chair shaped from bright metals. A spray of spikes haloed the man’s head. He gestured, and both Dorian and Cassius took seat in the two chairs positioned carefully across from the Archon. Their seats were small and delicate and placed them nearer the floor than the Archon.

All of it was part of the drama, as was the small procession of slaves who followed shortly thereafter, bringing a decanter of wine that Dorian knew would cost nearly as much coin as the slaves themselves and a stoppered crystal vial of brandy the colour of amber. The Archon was served a small portion of each, which he made a show of sampling, deciding, with a sharp hand gesture, on the brandy.

Good. Dorian’s nerves were enough on edge that he feared the wine wouldn’t quite do the trick. He accepted his own portion gladly.

“You must tell me, Master Pavus,” said the Archon, after Dorian had tipped back a mouthful of the brandy – at once sweet and rich with the echo of smoke and fire. “How did the Inquisitor receive the news that you would return to the Imperium? I have heard he honours his companions as if they were family. Your departure must have been difficult, after you’d sworn yourself to his cause.”

And so it began. _Tell me, how does the Inquisitor react to failures in upholding one’s promises_. “He’s not a man to hold a grudge, Imperial Archon,” Dorian said, fingers tight around the crystal glass. “His concerns are much as our own: peace, prosperity, stability. He understood that my obligations to the Imperium necessitated my journey. Loyalty can take many forms and the Inquisitor values loyalty to the truth of one’s own heart above all else.”

He could almost hear Cassius’s mind churning next to him, turning in circles upon circles upon circles of permutations. So this _was_ about the Inquisition after all – although the Archon had opened with Vyrania’s death, which suggested that he wanted them here to talk of her passing and the pattern of assassinations in Minrathous and the Magisterium.

What had the letter said? _Matters of state, Senate, and southern politics_.

“A surprising thing, that he would allow a Tevinter mage to work by his side. Many wondered where the Inquisitor’s allegiances lay after that. Might you enlighten?”

_Where does the Inquisitor stand on the Imperium, and do you have his ear?_

Dorian shifted. “There were those who were not pleased that he allowed me to stay, but the Inquisitor is a man of sense: stereotypes and mischaracterizations have never swayed him.”

“An admirable position,” Cassius murmured, “And one rare enough to find, although I’m sure Lord Lavellan has borne the brunt of enough assumptions that he’s wise to their dangers.”

The Archon leaned back, thin shoulders pressing against the rigid, angular back of his seat. His fingers tented before him, tapered and pale as candles. “And yet now he tends solely to his own people, forgoing the responsibilities of his position to wander through the wilderness. I am forced to wonder if this absence indicates a lack of leadership or an attempt to divert attention from his true intentions?”

Dorian felt himself recoil, as if a blow had been struck against the side of his face. _True intentions_? What was the man on about?

Radonis continued. “Word has reached my ear that you came with a companion, Master Pavus. I am forced to wonder if this companion of yours reveals the Inquisitor’s genuine purpose.”

The hairs on the back of Dorian’s neck prickled as the Archon’s pale gaze pinned him in place. Had the Archon _guessed_ , against all odds, that the Inquisitor had come to Tevinter? Had Aurelia tipped their hand? How could the man have _possibly_ known, when Talen played the part of assassin so very –

Oh. Of _course_.

“You refer to Falon Sabrae.”

The Archon’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “The assassin, yes.”

Dorian supposed rather distantly that it might appear to an outsider as though the whole thing was too convenient to be coincidence. He was a Tevinter mage who’d most recently worked for a southern political force and against his corrupted countrymen. The pariah returned to the Imperium with an assassin at his side, at which point a great number of magisters began dropping dead. Coupled with Radonis’s fears of retribution from the Inquisition, the picture painted by Dorian’s arrival was not at all a pretty one. Nor could it be, with the sheer volume of viscera being splattered across the finest Minrathous households in the past weeks.

This required a delicate touch. He must allay the Archon’s fears without giving voice to the truth of the matter. Enough honesty to be believable, not so much as to put Talen in danger. To put the Inquisition on dangerously uneven ground with the Imperium.

All the while, Dorian had to try and redirect the Archon’s attentions to Cassius, to ensure he looked upon Cassius favourably. For the good of Tevinter and for all it might become.

Dorian shifted his body, leaning forward the slightest amount to seem earnest. When he spoke, it was in a quiet, assuring tone. “The truth of it is rather simple, I’m afraid, and not nearly so sinister as it might be: the Inquisitor was uneasy with the idea of my return to Tevinter. He bears our nation no ill will, but has dealt with enough of our _lesser compatriots_ to fear for my well-being. And so he asked Lord Sabrae to accompany me, trusting in his skill enough to see me to safety should things become… messy. As, it would seem, they have.”

The Archon sat as perfectly still. As stiffly as if were chiselled from the same marble as his predecessors in the first hall of the Senate. “And I’m to believe that the Inquisitor would go to such great lengths for one of his companions? Without ulterior motive?”

His skepticism was warranted, but Dorian couldn’t allow it to go unchallenged. “Imperial Archon, with apologies, I must point out that you’ve noted as much yourself. The Inquisitor cares for his companions as he might family.”

“The sudden absence from Skyhold?”

The man was like a horse with the bit in his teeth, stubbornly refusing to be turned in a different direction. One that led them less directly toward trouble and suspicion.

Very well, if Dorain couldn’t deflect him with a sliver of the truth, he would try a little more of it. Perhaps shocking the Archon would have the desired effect. Maker knows it was more important to assuage the Archon’s fears than to preserve whatever ounce of respect the man might have for him. Dorian had no choice in the matter. Might as well commit himself fully to being exiled once this was over.

He cast his glance upwards and steeled his nerves with another draw of brandy. “That he timed his journey to meet with Dalish clans when I left –” Dorian paused, set the glass down firmly, and straightened his shoulders. “Imperial Archon, a man such as yourself would have heard the rumours about the nature of the relationship between the Inquisitor and his Tevinter mage. I do not mean to be vulgar, but I would have you know that the rumours are true. He knew he couldn’t accompany me to Minrathous and so sent one of his people to stand watch; I’m sure the keep feels rather empty in my absence, and so he turns himself to other things so that he doesn’t fret endlessly. He is prone to fretting, and when he frets, he makes ill-advised decisions.”

The silence in the room was louder than clarion bells, the Archon perfectly and completely silent and still. Moments stretched to unbearable lengths, and then Cassius cleared his throat. “All unfortunately a matter of bad timing, Imperial Archon. Your observations are astute, though seem to reveal correlation rather than causation.”

“So I see,” said Radonis, gaze flicking to Cassius. His lips thinned and he turned his attention back to Dorian. A gaze sharp enough to part skin from bone.

Well, Dorian had done the unthinkable: he’d told the truth. Enough of it to get himself in trouble, not quite enough to put his lover in a dangerous spot.

“Your time,” said the Archon slowly, “in the south has affected you, Master Pavus. You grow remarkably _forthright_. Honest, even.”

“I’ve also developed a taste for Ferelden ale. A source of great and unending shame,” Dorian sighed. Still, his blood sang with the danger in the room, as real as if the Archon’s hands crackled with a spell. Yes, Dorian, wade into the Imperium that had you hiding for years and just announce every bit of who you are as loudly as if you wandered in wearing nothing but silk scarves aflutter in the breeze. An excellent strategem.

The Archon made a small sound in his throat, contemplative. “As it so happens, we had already learned the truth of the rumours to which you refer. That you would verify them of your own volition speaks less to corruption and more to what may be the beginning of a beneficial arrangement. You keep worthy company, Magister Niteo, if slightly unconventional.”

And with that, the danger was gone as readily if Solas had, with a wave of his hand, dispelled a nasty enchantment in the works. Dorian felt his body uncoil. Cassius, on the other hand, straightened. This was his time to shine. “A fine balance to maintain, I assure you. Both excellence of mind and morals with suitability of alliance. It is why Vyrania’s tragic death is such a blow to us all.”

To us all. A well-placed opening.

Radonis smiled, a faint little thing that made him look distinctly _less_ human, perhaps because it looked such a foreign thing on his face. From a man like Radonis, a smile felt a calculated ploy. “The Senate will certainly lack colour in her absence and the diversity of ideology her leadership brought. Something we might rectify if her killer were named and brought to justice. These deaths do weigh on the mind: such brutality at the heart of our nation, where one expects civility.”

_Identify the mind behind these schemes and find your position elevated_. Cassius took a slow swallow of the brandy, smiling at the man who sat at the head of the Imperial Senate. On his face, the expression was as warm and natural as the rising sun. “If the offense lies in the quarter in which I suspect, we will find the Imperium all the better for its revelation and our nation returned to its proper glory. I shall endeavour to provide you with a name, Imperial Archon. And a head.”

Now the Archon smiled truly, although it still looked as odd a snake try to mimic the expression. “It’s been far too long since I’ve witnessed a duel of note, Magister Niteo. Do ensure you make an appropriate spectacle once you’ve determined the guilty party.”

“I would have it no other way,” murmured Cassius, inclining his head.

They were ushered out shortly thereafter, led out by the same silent and dark procession of guards as had brought them to the Archon’s feet. The whole way Dorian’s mind circled around on the conversation they’d just had with the man who guided all political currents in the country. _You grow remarkably forthright_.

There were worse things to be called, Dorian thought. They trailed past the grand columns of the Senate and down the seemingly endless stairs, back into Minrathous proper and away from the chambers that sang with power, glory, and danger. Potential futures and broken vows, dark conspiracies and half-articulated promises.

“So we find our killer and win the Archon’s favour,” said Cassius, once they’d finally stepped past the bright gates marking the Imperial grounds and back into the wide, clean thoroughfare that would lead them to the Niteo estate. “All in all, that could have gone worse.”

“How fortunate that you keep such _worthy_ if _unconventional_ company!” Dorian said, a breathy laugh following. How remarkable. He might never be fit for the title of magister, but the man at the head of the whole thing had seemed less fazed by his choice of lover and more taken aback by his _honesty_.

Cassius laughed, shaking his head. “Maker, I half-expected some mythical axe to come crashing down. Surely, some ancient magister must have laid a curse on those chambers: speak a word of truth and be ended! Dare to profane our inane and outdated expectations and see head cleft from body!”

“I am entirely certain,” Dorian said wryly, “that I’m not the first man to sit in the Archon’s chambers who’s disappointed ancient expectation, although I’m certain that I do it with a great deal more style than my predecessors.”

A hand reached out and clasped Dorian’s shoulder, a warm, certain touch. “That was brave, you know. Admirable.”

He’d been called brave before. Hearing it in Minrathous from a magister had a certain appeal, but the words were a pale imitation of the first time he’d heard them from the lips of the man who would become his lover. From the bravest man Dorian knew.

Speaking the truth of his heart here when he did so to political purpose? Hardly a brave thing at all. Political, mercenary reasons required less courage than simply desiring the truth to be known. Far harder to be forthright for your own benefit. Although Dorian had, for the span of a moment, thought that he might find himself incinerated with a flick of the Archon’s wrist.

Thankfully Radonis was a reasonable man. A few of his predecessors would not have been nearly so measured, Archons known for their brutal conformity to things as they were. That Dorian stood with the Inquisitor at his back, even if the Archon believed Talen to be several nations away rather than within the same city playing assassin, could not have hurt his cause, though, nor the subsequent reception.

“I could make myself more admirable if we were able to produce the mind behind the schemes we find ourselves embroiled in, Cassius. To win the Archon’s support would be a coup if it came alongside sufficient numbers to see that support in play.”

“I think it safe to say that we search for a magister of a certain political leaning,” said Cassius, turning his thoughts as if on the edge of a coin. “If not a magister, a worthwhile mage with ambitions of gaining footing within the Magisterium.” His voice dropped, head bent in closer. “Though you think him unlikely, I would suggest we turn our eyes to Gratian.”

Dorian scoffed. Gratian Ditas was a man of Cassius’s age who had been studying at the Imperial University at the same time as Dorian blazed his way through his studies. The man had a plodding mind, stuck in its ways and unable to innovate. He liked details – _always_ with the details of the insignificant and suffocatingly dull sort.

He’d grown jealous, of course, of the praise Dorian received from all quarters. Gratian couldn’t compete, the man of careful, controlled papers and trite research into things that didn’t matter and would never matter. It didn’t help that their families were connected in some painfully obscure way through marriage – a connection that only Dorian’s mother could explain in that incomprehensible way of hers – and that they’d both worked under the same supervisors. The comparisons were inevitable and never favoured Gratian.

Enough of that and Gratian had acted, seizing upon the first opportunity to cast doubt on the safety of Dorian’s research into manipulating the Veil with spatial effects in the realm of the living. The man certainly knew how to use his words, laying them out in neat little rows of dead syllables, an endless parade of reasonable soldiers voicing reasonable concerns until the very reasonableness of the whole thing threatened to swallow up anything remotely _interesting_ or _innovative_.

In the end, he convinced the Imperial University’s First Chair to bring an end to Dorian’s research, which effectively ended Dorian’s time at the University. In a roundabout way, Dorian supposed, he had Gratian to thank for then stumbling into Alexius’s patronage.

Not that that had turned out very well, although his work with Alexius had been invigorating. Until it went horribly wrong.

“The man hasn’t enough original thought in his head to think up such a thing, Cassius. He doesn’t innovate, regardless of how grisly or grotesque the innovation might be.” The turn of the conversation left a sour taste in Dorian’s mouth, like too much cheap wine. “We look for a sharper mind, I think. One less concerned with tradition and more concerned with _effect_.”

They rounded the corner that would see them divided, Dorian turning to head back to _The Dragon’s Heart_ , Cassius to his estate and waiting wife. The man hesitated for a moment, light burnishing his hair. “You haven’t seen him in years, Dorian. I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss him. Gratian has become… a force to be reckoned with, don’t doubt it.”

Dorian stood, folding his arms. Cassius had excellent judgment and, much as he hated to admit the possibility, time might be able to change even the dullest of blades into something capable of cutting flesh. “If you insist. If he begins cackling maniacally when we’re at Praeclarus Hall, I’ll jot his name down under the column _possible villain_. For you.”

A warm smile in return, which lit up the dark, cool night. “Something I would appreciate, Dorian. I’ll review our notes tonight and see if I can’t find a few more names – ones you’ll consider without looking like I’ve asked you to put your hand to a fire.”

“You misrepresent the effect Gratian has on me,” Dorian intoned. “I would _much_ rather thrust my palm into coals than be forced to endure what he calls conversation. But there you are.”

“We must all make sacrifices,” Cassius said. His forehead creased, a small furrow that bled the earlier merriment from his features. “And some have paid dearly indeed for the commitment to seeing our nation made nobler.”

A grim reminder of what had called them to the Archon’s chambers in the first place. Cassius dipped his head and said farewell, slipping away into the darkness of the evening.

_We must all make sacrifices_ , Dorian thought. True enough. He’d come to the Imperium to help his country become all that it might be. He wouldn’t shy away from making whatever sacrifices were necessary to ensure Cassius stood at the helm, guiding the nation toward a brighter future. To see Tevinter aspire to true and lasting greatness: it would be worth whatever the cost.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, gosh. This was originally meant to only be the first part of Chapter 4, but the grand total of the whole thing ended up being more than 30 000 words. Under the advisement of my truly exceptional and wondrous beta [spycaptain](http://spycaptain.tumblr.com), AKA heroic vanquisher of my personal punctuation demons and truest friend when I am Having Feelings, we ended up splitting the chapter in two.
> 
> Also, hey, are you enjoying the ride? Want to dork out over Dragon Age and Dorian and Inquisitor Lavellan and Cassandra and all of my favourite fictional characters with me? I guarantee I want to be friends on [Tumblr](http://mstigergun.tumblr.com). Don't be shy!
> 
> ALSO ALSO: my lovely friend [openthepocketwatch](http://openthepocketwatch.tumblr.com) _drew_ fanart of Talen and it is _awesome_ and _perfect_ and you should [check it out](http://openthepocketwatch.tumblr.com/post/111331117694/why-who-is-this-cutie-its-only-talen-lavellan).


	5. All Their Vanity

**Chapter 5: All Their Vanity**

_In secret they worked_  
_Magic upon magic_  
_All their power and all their vanity_  
_They turned against the Veil_  
_Until at last, it gave way._  
_(Threnodies 8:13)_

*

If Talen had found the underbelly of Minrathous infuriatingly impenetrable before, it only grew worse after Dorian outlined just how desperately they needed him to provide answers. It was not unlike trying to push a boulder up a mountain when one lacked both hands and feet.

“It’s necessary,” Dorian had said, eyes bright. “With a name, we gain Radonis’s favour. With his favour, he’ll appoint new magisters who will support Cassius. With those magisters, we should have enough votes to hold a majority in the Magisterium. In one fell swoop, we’ll show that we hold the Archon’s attention and handily discredit the minds behind these attacks, which should sway those of more moderate political leanings to throw their lot in with us.”

Gone were his fears about involving Talen. It was a relief to finally be needed, to be relied upon as a support, as a necessary component of setting the wheels of change in motion.

It also made his failure to make progress that much worse. Days had passed since Vyrania’s death and Talen had gained nothing.

His letters hadn’t yet had enough time to reach either Leliana or Varric. Without the cipher he might use to decode the foreign script of whispered voices and half-breathed references, Talen might as well be illiterate in the middle of a library. Answers lurked somewhere in the gloom yet refused to make themselves comprehensible. How things fit together in Minrathous, how black market moguls were connected to the Senate, how escaping slaves supported whatever wretched schemes were unfolding, how opiates tied into assassinations –

Things he could not read. Thoughts he could not understand. A language beyond him.

He was very nearly ready to try and break into the Society house – because fear of Proxima be damned, he _would_ get his answers even if he had to slash his way through a score of accomplished assassins – when the Society came to him.

After yet another unsuccessful trip to the warehouse that he and Rilere had emptied of guards, he returned to the hotel, skin prickling with irritation.

The sensation turned into something else the moment he stepped through the door to their suite, the hairs at the back of his neck rising as if he were deep in the woods and being tracked by a predator.

He wasn’t alone.

Before he could even reach to pull a dagger from his back, a figure materialized on the balcony, hands held out in front of it.

“If you could hold off on piercing me with your dagger, we’d all be happier – both me and your _special friend_.”

Talen’s eyes widened. “Iro?”

The woman edged in from the balcony, slipping through the panels of the curtains. “Yes, here I am. And not even sent here to kill you!” Her hair, usually rumpled, was smoothed neatly; her fingers, so often stained with ink, were clean and held out placatingly before her.

She was hardly the acolyte he’d grown to know in his time with the Society of the Black Orchid.

His hand eased from the hilt of his dagger. “My _special friend_?”

“Oh, you know. The handsome one. Did you get it? Piercing me with your dagger.” She waggled her eyebrows, edging in closer until she’d finally made her way into the reception room proper.

“There are a great many handsome men in my life. I’m spoiled for choice.” Still, he watched her. She might say she wasn’t here to kill him, but Iro wore black from head-to-toe and came with knives strapped across her back. A sealed tube rested at her hip. It would carry a scroll, Talen knew that much. Perhaps the details of this job: find the stray assassin and put an end to his questions.

But instead of making any moves that would spell the need for Talen to fly into battle, to put a knife through the heart of the girl he’d grown rather fond of, Iro sighed and sank down in the nearest piece of furniture, a cream and mahogany settee. “I wouldn’t mind being so spoiled. Instead, it’s always _grim assassins_ and _paper cuts_ and _compile these reports_ and _never see sunlight again_.”

Talen remained standing, watching the animated lines of her face. “The assassin’s guild may be a poor calling, Iro, if you’re worried about missing out on sunlight.”

Her nose wrinkled. “Yes, yes, I know. Stay in the shadows, darkness forever, we like death and the night, thanks. You can kill people just as neatly during the day, only you’ve got to be a touch more clever.” Iro tapped a finger against her temple. “Thankfully, that’s not a problem for me.”

“You’re touched in the head? I quite agree.”

Her bluster, Talen noticed distantly, had put him at ease. The tension pulling his shoulder blades together had already given way to a looser stance, one leg canted out as he eyed her.

Iro might very well make a good assassin one day. She’d make an even better spy. If Leliana could get her hands on Iro, she might have a real gem – albeit one that needed reminding about what sorts of jokes were appropriate for leaving in dossiers. Which would be none.

The girl sat, legs apart, elbows resting on her knees. She cradled her chin in her hand, russet eyes focusing sharply on him, like a magpie that had caught sight of an interesting bauble. “Proxima doesn’t know I’m here,” she said, feet bouncing restlessly against the floor.

“That’s a thing of which you can never be too certain.” Something about her manner pricked his interest, and he caught himself leaning forward, listening hard to the tone of her voice, scrutinizing the lines of her body.

She’d come with a secret, Talen thought, and she was excited to share it and not a little frightened of what doing so might mean.

Iro still sat, hunched forward, watching him as intently as he studied her.

“Well,” he said, after he’d grown weary of waiting. The curtains behind Iro billowed outwards as an errant breeze pushed its way into the suite. “Out with it.”

“You said you wanted to know about the largest black market operations in Minrathous.” Iro sucked on the inside of her cheek, lips twisting into a thoughtful shape.

His fingers twitched, attention jumping for a moment to the tube at her hip. Just when he’d been lost in the dark, she lit a candle in the distance, a light to guide him to where he needed to be.

Caution tempered his desire to have the information she offered. “Why would you do this?” Talen asked. He looked again to the dark balcony beyond Iro’s shoulder, listening for any hint of movement.

There was none but the air, chill and carrying the distant smell of smoke and cedar.

“It’s an exchange,” Iro offered plainly. “I’ll give you this, you do your best to make Minrathous a bit better. You were with the Inquisition; I figure that means you’ve got a decent enough sense of what’s right and what’s not – and there’s a lot that goes on in this city that _isn’t_ right. So go, and, I don’t know, _inquisit_ something that makes things better. My hands are tied. Yours aren’t.” Her fingers fumbled for a moment at her side, and then she proffered the tube.

He raised his eyebrows. “Really? No innuendo about inquisiting? Nor tied hands?”

Iro’s smile came bright and fast, like a flash of lightning. “All I’m going to say is this: while I was creeping about, looking for a way in – which, by the way, was _far_ too easy to find for this place to be secure – I stumbled across one of your neighbours. There is a very handsome Antivan downstairs who happened to be changing when I snuck by and, well, you know how Antivans are. He’s probably got all sorts of questionable merchandise of _significant size_ hidden about all over the place. You may want to do a thorough search.”

Talen stepped over to her and pried the tube from her waiting hands. It was light, but felt heavy with the weight of promised answers. “I’ve heard great tales of Antivan tailoring,” he said, turning his thoughts away from what this information might win him and to the eager young assassin with the crooked grin still plastered across her face. “You wouldn’t believe how much they can fit into the tightest of spaces.”

A snort. Another waggle of her eyebrows. “Oh, I’d believe it if I got to watch. You’ve heard what they say: assassins should always wait in the shadows, seeing all with passive eye and keen mind and, you know, _ready hand_.”

“You’re genuinely unrepentant,” Talen said, grinning at her even as the readiness of her smile and the brightness in her eyes made something hurt deep in his chest. Made him ache for Skyhold and his friends again. “Now go. I wouldn’t have Proxima catching you here.”

Iro pushed herself up, slipping past the gauzy curtain and back into the night with a polite jerk of her chin. He followed and caught her as she leapt to the balcony’s edge, prepared to vanish into shadow.

“Iro,” he said, fingers fastening around her wrist. She paused, turning her face to watch him with a curious, open stare. “ _Thank you_. There are many who will be in your debt.”

“I’d settle for a good word should I ever come south looking for work,” she said. At his confused look, she added, “Listen, Minrathous is all well and good – except that it isn’t _good_ at all, which is the point. I like to dream sometimes of something more, something a little less pristine and a little more real. And for all we like to whine about southern life, there’s something pretty romantic about the _uncultured wilds_. Plus,” and here Iro shot him an exaggerated wink, rolled her wrist around so that she grasped his hand in hers for a moment, “if _you’re_ anything to go on, I’m sure I’d have my share of fun down south. And _down south_ , if you know what I mean.”

And then, swift as the wind, she let go and dropped from sight.

When all of this was over, he was going to tell Melusine about Iro. He wasn’t sure he wanted Leliana to have her. The Inquisition’s new spymaster, on the other hand – well. She might even appreciate Iro’s horrible jokes, given Melusine’s affinity for leaving puns in her reports.

Talen walked back inside the suite and twisted the tube open. Inside, he found only a few words, but they were precisely what he needed. _Pluma, Breccan Casses_ and _Oriolus, Septima Vulpera_. Underneath it all, a scribbled note in the handwriting that had become so familiar these past few weeks: _Not certain if they run the things or are just puppets. Careful – either way, they have teeth. And they won’t use them in the fun way either_.

A long sigh of relief broke free from his throat as he tipped his head backwards, savouring the moment.

Finally, he could make progress. Finally, he could be of some assistance – to Dorian, yes, but he could also unearth the dark secrets he’d glimpsed when working with Rilere.

Should all go according to plan, he could crack the Minrathous underworld open, ensure that the evil schemes that were afoot were utterly thwarted, and he and Dorian could go _home_.

*

Iro’s gift of names was the key that unlocked the silent streets of Minrathous’s black market, its hidden underbelly of crime and secrets. Talen found the city’s darkest secrets opening before him, as an oyster split open when a knife was pressed to just the right spot. His ears pricked as he wandered back alleys and dirty neighbourhoods, flitting from shadow to shadow and eavesdropping on whispered conversations. With the names of each organization, he was able to decipher meaning from the previously unintelligible and infuriatingly familiar symbols all over the city. Three black feathers marked Pluma territory, while a golden bird proudly proclaimed neighbourhoods dominated by Oriolus. The two organizations, he soon discovered, operated in distinct spheres, each a kingdom within the underworld wealthy enough to have little cause for conflict. Vice was in no short supply in Minrathous.

Still, something had changed. The man who wore gold had called it a _spat_ , but the conflict Talen heard of sounded more akin to a war: the streets didn’t run wet with blood, but the conflicts still left their marks on the city. Neutral grounds had been grabbed up in a mad scramble for the most ideal locations: sections that facilitated transport and production while remaining impoverished enough that a black market ruler would be preferable to none at all. Merchants in one neighbourhood currently caught in the middle of a fight for grounds in the southern corner of the city squabbled about which faction deserved support. Pluma offered a steady supply of high end clients frequenting the area; Oriolus, while it shipped more of its goods abroad, generated coin through production of some unnamed good. “Better to have coin off the fatted lords atop the hills than from the cheap and tawdry golden bird workers,” contested the one, while the other shook her head and insisted that the _cheap and tawdry workers_ were far more likely to buy up the wares available in this tiny and dingy quarter.

In any case, each faction had established strongholds within the city, the seat of each underworld kingdom so firmly ensconced that uprooting either would be akin to reducing the Senate to a pile of rubble. Oriolus operated largely out of Cothonis, a neighbourhood along the harbour toward the edge of the city that offered easy access to a series of caves beyond the city walls. Pluma, on the other hand, had grown up in the heart of Minrathous itself and used abandoned catacombs for their purposes that ran underneath Medietas, a wealthy Soporati neighbourhood. Had he an army, Talen might just rain his forces down on both strongholds. As it was, he operated alone and would find no aid from Tevinter forces. The black market was one of the backbones of the nation’s economy. Oriolus and Pluma were very nearly _respectable_ ; they might sell opiates and bring in goods without proper taxation, but they also generated preposterously vast amounts of wealth. As a land constantly losing territory, the Imperium needed all of the riches it could generate.

Without Inquisition forces, then, and without any hope of help from the appropriate offices within the Imperium, Talen was thus forced to rely on more strategic moves – not unlike playing chess with Dorian, except with stakes immeasurably higher than his own sense of pride. Talen played for the future of the Imperium, but more importantly he worked to save lives. There could be nothing more crucial.

He finally had a stroke of luck when travelling the roofline in a dingy area by the docks several afternoons after Iro’s visit – the night of Dorian’s trip to some lavish ball beyond the city walls. The sun beat hard the white stone of the buildings and the clay of their roofs, assaulting him on all sides with radiant heat. He slipped underneath an overhanging balcony, finding respite for a moment in the sliver of shade and the secluded juncture where several haphazard houses met. It was harder to be unseen during the day, but far easier to hear uncautious words. Beneath him, a man and a woman stood in their tiny excuse for a garden, more a square of dusty stone for drying clothes and housing dead herbs in broken pots than anything else.

“They paid in coin and told me to be gone for a full three days. I wanted to say no, but –”

The man’s tone, the insistent, fearful way he whispered _they_ , brought Talen up short as he prepared to slide to another thin shadow on the next roof. His feet stilled, palm catching the underside of the low balcony to hold him steady.

A tone he’d heard often enough when speaking of the monarchs of the Minrathous underworld. Before he’d had names, the unbreaking insistence that all Soporati and Liberati used _they_ instead of organization names had driven him mad.

But now, with the cipher in hand, he knew enough to pause and listen. To read the _they_ for what it was.

“We don’t say no to them,” his wife hissed, leaning in close in the tiny square of outdoor space. “Never to them. They’ll be good for their coin and there’ll be a nice bonus for us if we’re quiet. Make something up to tell your workers – _saar-qamek_ from Seheron en route to some Antivan merchant prince. Anything to keep them away. We can’t have word get out.”

But, as soon as the words were spoken, they _were_ out. Talen had gained a new appreciation for the work his spymaster did, and all that Leliana’s hard work and dark network had won him. Words could shape nations as surely as swords. He would have to use both as his weapons in Minrathous.

The man muttered something so quickly that Talen couldn’t translate it and then headed back inside the house.

Talen slipped down from the roof and into a dusty alleyway below, waiting for the man to emerge from his dark doorway.

He followed the warehouse quartermaster all the way to his large building on the canal. This warehouse was in much finer condition than the one that had started him on this journey so many days ago, three stories tall with tidily shuttered windows. Talen took a small bridge over the canal and turned to scouting out a location from which he’d have an adequate view of the warehouse.

Several of the buildings on the other side of the canal had been split into small apartments, each with its own balcony. As luck would have it, one building, its plaster chipping and its sides thick with dead vines, was unoccupied. Talen strolled casually underneath the shadows cast by the shape of the balconies, eyeing the third one up.

From such a perch, he would have a clear line of sight into the warehouse across the canal. So long as the hatches were open – which they would be, if goods were being unloaded tonight and stored there for future distribution – he would be able to see precisely what was going on inside. Who came, who gave the orders, and what kind of _shipments_ they received.

Finally, a concrete piece of information to give Dorian.

Lingering might rouse suspicion, so Talen slipped through forgotten alleyways out of the neighbourhood and began climbing his way back to the loftiest neighbourhoods in Minrathous. He knew Dorian was with Niteo today. There was something going on at the estate. Dorian had tried to explain, but Altus politicking made little sense to Talen: something about an _early legislative drafting meeting_ , which, he’d explained, had little to do with legislation and much more to do with indirectly testing the waters with some magister faction.

There were simply some things at which Talen was rather useless, and this sort of politicking was chief among them. Perhaps these meetings could lay the foundation for change as Dorian insisted, but they also worked in slow and languid movements that seemed to circle around upon themselves rather than pushing forward.

Talen, on the other hand, moved swiftly and directly. What little he knew about politics and alliances had been gleaned during his frantic campaign against Corypheus. He couldn’t grasp the almost leisurely pace at which change happened in Tevinter.

It was perhaps because Talen only understood change as a _fast_ thing, or perhaps because he still focused primarily on the escaped slaves, that he felt nearly… restless. He listened while Dorian explained why they were speaking with some magister or trying to court some Altus family, but the whole while his hands would twist themselves into knots. He felt much as a horse might, reined into a parade line while the horizon beckoned; held in check, when he was used to running across the open wilds.

There was so much that needed _doing_ , that demanded _action_. Talen had seen enough of Minrathous, enough of Tevinter to know that change _was_ necessary, but the way in which Dorian and Niteo tried to achieve it, the way in which he was permitted to help –

He sighed.

If only either Dorian or Cassius showed nearly as much concern for _slaves_ as they did for _dinner parties_ , Talen might feel less torn between two goals. His task was to uncover the mind behind the string of assassinations; stopping the brutal use of escaping slaves was a secondary, perhaps tertiary, concern to those more interested in politicking. For the two mages, everything boiled down to the Archon’s favour and votes tallied and the grand workings of empire. Never those ground down into the dust.

He turned over the bitter thought, again and again, until it felt worn and smooth by the whorls of his mind. Like a worry stone, but one that caused more upset than it ever soothed. His feet carried him unthinkingly to Niteo’s estate. He was distantly aware of the eyes that tracked his movements through the pristine streets of the sumptuous Altus neighbourhood: what right had an elf to parade unattended through these streets?

 _Every right_ , he thought darkly as he brushed past one ornately-dressed woman who stared after him, her neck stiff with shock.

Talen stepped up to the front door of the estate. A servant spotted him and the front door opened, the slim-shouldered woman stepping out. Her hair was piled atop her head in a topknot, any loose strands caught behind her tapered ears. Around her throat lay a gold collar, heavy against her narrow neck.

“Lord Sabrae,” she said, dipping her head.

“Nitela. How are you?” He smiled at her, though she returned his warmth with her usual stoic expression.

“Your kindness overwhelms as always, my lord,” she murmured. The smallest crease formed between her eyebrows. “Master Cassius is in the middle of meeting. Might I offer you a seat in his office until his talks are concluded?”

It wouldn’t do. He needed Dorian and Niteo to know what he’d discovered and his plan to head back tonight for additional information. “I’ll only need a moment. It’s essential that I see either the magister or Dorian.”

“Of course,” she demured, ducking her head. Wordlessly, she ushered him through the front entryway and back to the gardens. The house was still and silent as a grave. It was only when they passed through the back to the gardens that the scene gained life. Talen stepped through the arched doorway to the gardens, the air carrying the distant murmur of voices. The sound of a fountain muffled the specifics of their words, leaving only the impression of tone.

Though not nearly so magnificent as the late Vyrania’s grounds, Niteo kept a tidy outdoor space. Small trees and flowering shrubs sweetened the air, while tasteful sprays of flowers surrounded graceful statuary. Here, at the back of the house, the sounds of the city faded until all that was on the wind was the babbling fountain and the rustle of feathers as birds flitted from tree to tree.

“If you might wait here,” Nitela breathed as Talen stepped down the two stairs into the sunken garden. He could see in the distance a cluster of men and women, all perched on a little square of finely-carved benches behind the fountain. Niteo stood at one end, gesturing sharply with his hands, while Dorian rested languidly at his side.

Even from this distance, Talen could see the clever little smirk curling his lover’s lips. His heart softened, affection warming his as surely from the inside out as the sun that baked against his skin heated him from the outside in.

Nitela walked across the fine gravel of the garden. She drew silently to Niteo’s elbow and he paused in the middle of an animated speech to tilt his ear to her mouth.

In an instant, his eyes had fastened on Talen across the space of the garden. A hand pressed to Dorian’s shoulder and, after Cassius sent Nitela to fill the waiting wine glasses again, the two of them crossed the space.

Niteo’s hand still rested on the firm plane of Dorian’s shoulder. The earlier warmth at Dorian’s smile turned to a chill, as insistent as the cold of the Frostback Mountains.

“How unexpected,” Niteo said, when he and Dorian drew near enough to speak. “A rather inopportune moment, Lord Sabrae.”

A chastisement. Irritation buzzed at the back of his skull – but it was diffused the moment Dorian tossed him a bright smile. “I take it you come bearing news?”

For now, Talen had information to share, and then a mystery to solve. His baser feelings could wait.

“Perhaps we should speak inside,” Talen murmured, gaze darting past Cassius’s shoulder to the waiting magisters.

Cassius nodded, and they retreated to the cool, quiet interior of the house. Once they’d stepped into the office and shut the door, Niteo turned his bright gaze on Talen, eyebrows raised. “Well? I should have your report so that our discussions might continue outside.”

Talen’s expression must have slipped, because Dorian leapt to his aid immediately. “Cassius,” he said, “You’ve managed to sound positively _ungrateful_ when I _know_ that isn’t the case. Why, only yesterday you were prattling on and on about how pleased you were to have Falon lending his help when he is in no way obligated to do so.”

A short, sharp sigh. Cassius pressed a hand to his temple. “Yes, of course. My apologies, Lord Sabrae. It’s been a rather difficult meeting so far and Yanna Nepos has just seen it fit to turn the whole thing around to how I’ll justify keeping slaves to the Inquisitor.”

Something curdled, black and foul, inside of his gut.

Keeping _slaves_?

Nitela –

He’d assumed the gold collar was for tradition’s sake, to denote her status as a servant rather than the fact that she was _property_. Talen had assumed that a man such as Cassius would – that someone who favoured _reform_ , a man who Dorian was sure would lead Tevinter to a better, nobler future –

Dorian cleared his throat. “If you would, Falon?”

It was as clear a reminder of his place, here in Minrathous and here in Niteo’s home, as if Dorian had shoved him into the attending slave’s room.

They _would_ speak of this later. For now, Dorian was right: he had to focus on the matter at hand. If that meant swallowing this black feeling so that he could determine who’d been treating slaves so wretchedly, so he could work for the safety of those who were still oppressed, he would do it. After all, it seemed there was no one else upon whom he could rely to focus on those most sorely abused by the machinations of empire.

“As I’m sure Dorian has told you,” Talen said in a carefully neutral tone, “I have identified both pertinent organizations who could be linked to the assassinations: Oriolus and Pluma. I also have the names of people of note attached to either organization. Septima Vulpera and Breccan Casses, respectively.”

Cassius frowned, his arms crossing. “I’ve heard a great deal of Septima Vulpera, though little enough of Breccan Casses. Casses is an incredibly common family name. Rather like trying to find a needle in a haystack, I’m afraid.”

“As I told him,” Dorian said. “I’ve met seventeen as of last count, and those would be the few who’ve clawed their way up through the ranks.”

“Laetans, working mostly in the Publicanum, yes. A common name sometimes elevated by the gift of magic,” said Cassius. “Septima, on the other hand, is known to acquire substantial numbers of slaves on a regular basis. It’s been of some discussion in certain circles: she pays little enough and always seems to require _more_.”

Either a way to smuggle slaves from Tevinter or a way to feed into the vast scheme they’d stumbled upon. Slaves purchased for freedom or for darkness. He couldn’t say.

“So,” Cassius said after a pause, “You have names. What else? I’ve heard such tales of your skill; I would be rather disappointed if this was all you’d managed to produce.”

Talen wasn’t sure if there was a compliment somewhere in there or an insult. In either case, it didn’t matter. This wasn’t a man whose approval he needed. He wasn’t a man whose approval Talen _wanted_. To think that just a week past he’d been eager to make an impression. How swiftly things changed.

“There is a warehouse,” Talen said, “being used tonight and the next two. I’m not sure which of the organizations in question has taken the space for their own. In either case, I should be able to identify some figures of note. Vulpera or Casses perhaps, or those who might lead me to them. With a few faces and names, I expect I’ll be able to paint a more meaningful picture.”

“A warehouse?” The frown stayed firmly in place, bright eyes alert. “Again?”

“In a different neighbourhood. Apelios.” Talen rolled his shoulders, adjusting under the scrutiny of Niteo’s stare, which was now _very_ interested. “It’s near territories dominated by Oriolus, although that means little enough now. A easy place to store goods lifted from Oriolus keeps should Pluma be capturing their shipments. Or a convenient location for Oriolus to occupy should they be processing shipments.”

“And all of this will happen tonight.” Niteo, too, shifted, his body curving toward Dorian in a proximity that made something dark as pitch roil in the depth of Talen’s gut. “How curious that such a thing should start when so many of our kin will be at Praeclarus Hall. I suppose that means we won’t be able to determine who’s at the very top.”

“I hardly think we’d find the mind behind the whole thing slumming around _that_ neighbourhood,” Dorian said, turning his attention back to Talen – a shift that, in turn, drew Cassius back toward him.

Talen smoothed his face to a picture of quiet certainty. “Things should become much clearer. I expect answers in some form, which I will readily supply to you once I have them, Magister.”

A small smile curled Niteo’s lips. “You’ve a talent for all this subterfuge. It’s fortunate that the Inquisitor sent you here with Dorian – you seem capable of solving all of our problems.”

“Yes, yes, how very useful to have an assassin on our side,” Dorian huffed. “To be able to poke around bodies and sneak through Minrathous with equal ease! A gift, Falon, well and truly, and one that sees you far from the more wearisome burdens of politicking. Namely attending very dull balls in honour of a vapid Altus girl ready finally to be wedded and bedded.”

Bluster as he might, Talen knew Dorian had been thrilled to have the opportunity to visit a tailor who, he’d said, had very nearly made him choose to stay in Minrathous. _There’s simply no one else like him in all of Thedas_ , Dorian had breathed dreamily when recounting the marvellous way he cut and draped cloth. With a glorious new robe in the finest royal sea silk and the richest blue cambric, Dorian would cut quite the picture – one Talen wouldn’t mind seeing, were he not forced to remain within the city walls, slinking through shadow.

It was as if Cassius had caught his train of thought. The man shot Dorian a smile that Talen could only describe as _affectionate_ , a half-chuckle chasing the expression. “Dorian, complain all you like. I have it on very good authority that you’ve had a robe made just for the occasion and I _know_ how you feel about new robes.”

Dorian made a contented sound in his throat. “I suppose you’ve caught me. In any case, I oughtn’t complain. Better fine champagne than gouts of blood, I suppose, Falon.” Always working to draw Talen back into the conversation, to show his appreciation for all that he did.

He might keep awful company, but Dorian was as steadfast as he could be while playing by the rules of this country.

“I’m not bothered by blood,” Talen said, noting the ease with which Dorian maneuvered the conversation. The grace with which he dwelled in this world. “So long as I can be of aid.”

“A magnanimous soul,” Cassius intoned . “Remarkable generosity for a fish so entirely out of water. If you wouldn’t mind, Dorian, I’d have another word with your assassin, but I worry that our guests might think us rude.”

 _Remember, elf_ , he said with a look aimed solely at Talen, _you overreach with Dorian_. As far as Niteo was concerned, Dorian’s journey to Tevinter had been the end to his relationship with the Inquisitor. That a lowly assassin tried to fill that spot, one so very unworthy and whose ambitions would flit from the son of a magister to the son of a merchant prince –

Little wonder Niteo was wary. That Talen had no affection for the man – could hardly even bring himself to use Niteo’s given name – was beyond the point. If Niteo moved to protect Dorian, there remained a small part of Talen that would have to be grateful, however mired that feeling was in resentment. However much he struggled with the freedom with which Niteo could talk to Dorian in this country, the ease with which they understood one another.

And now Niteo wanted to speak with him alone. It was everything Talen had hoped to avoid.

If Dorian caught any of the unspoken interaction or the dark turn of Talen’s thoughts, he gave no indication. He left the small room in a swirl of light fabric, leaving Talen with a bright and airy smile.

He was proud, Talen realized. The thought shot through him like a golden beam of sunlight cutting through cloud, leaving in its wake bright warmth – a warmth that threatened to dissipate under Niteo’s attention.

They’d never been alone together before. Talen felt all at once the weight of his lies as if someone had loosed a trebuchet at him. All the little falsehoods rained down upon him, each striking with the fury of truth denied.

Talen looked at Cassius, a tentative, exploratory glance. The man towered, broad-shouldered and upright, a perfectly composed picture of stoic certainty.

What Talen would have given in the early days of the Inquisition to have such inherent… authority.

Niteo opened his mouth to say something, then paused, frowning. “I should hope,” he said finally, “that you’re being careful in your investigations.”

Talen’s brows furrowed. He shifted his weight.

It was something he might have expected from Dorian, though it seemed that his lover had a hard time putting his concern in words. He liked to make jokes about the dangerous of the underworld – _even the rats carry knives_ – but Cassius’s insistence was surprising.

Did he fear for Dorian should something happen to Talen? Certainly, Cassius had surmised that there was something between them, however far from the mark he was.

The irony that Dorian had worried people would think that he used the Inquisitor to his own ends in the early days of their relationship did not escape Talen. Their positions had utterly reversed now that they dwelled in Tevinter.

But Cassius, _concerned_ for an _assassin_ , one so utterly disposable who but did his bidding –

Ah. That would be it.

“I’ve been subtle,” he said. “There should be nothing connecting the work I’ve done to you, Magister Niteo.”

Cassius made a low sound in his throat. “It’s enough that you are distinctive. I worry, of course. You understand that the black market is a cornerstone of the Imperium’s economy, however distasteful it is. To ask impertinent questions of the wrong people –”

Irritation flared underneath his skin, but Talen schooled his face to a passive acquiescence. “Of course,” he murmured, ever the good servant of this man’s higher purposes. “Rest assured: I am an assassin. I move in shadows.”

“Excellent. Well, if you’ve nothing else that requires my attention,” Cassius said.

A short shake of his head. His duty discharged, he might prepare himself for his work this evening. His Inquisition contact might finally have letters for him – though now, with the key information in hand, they would serve only as confirmation. And to remind him of all he missed of home. Talen turned to leave, when the man spoke again.

“Unless –” A pause, as Talen turned and fixed his gaze on Niteo, whose forehead had creased, his eyes sparkling with interest. “You know, your opinion could be very valuable for the rest of our meeting. You and the Inquisitor are both of the same… tribe, yes?”

The gnawing irritation grew into something fouler, a feeling blacker and more liable to poison. Still, Talen hid himself behind the mask of his face. The magister stumbled dangerously close to the truth. “We’re both Dalish, yes,” he said blandly.

“The people Dorian and I are speaking with today are close to a magister whose support we desperately need. Your work will amount to nothing if we can’t win her to our side – and because Yanna, vicious little creature that she is, put such a question to me, well. You would be invaluable, Falon.”

His work would amount to nothing without a magister’s vote. Talen thought of the glazed eyes of dead slaves, their blood slick and hot against his skin, bodies broken and battered but hearts still full of the hope that things might be better, even against all of the odds.

Freedom for such people was not _nothing_. The thought seared itself upon his mind, threatened to burst from his mouth, hot and bright as a wall of fire and more righteous still – but no.

He would have no part in Cassius’s games. He would not reveal his hand, not when he came so close to uncovering the truth. To redeeming himself for his previous failures.

“I doubt I’d be of any use. I wouldn’t know what to say,” he demured, careful to keep his tone as even as the Imperial highway. Unblemished, smooth, faithful.

A huffed laugh, and Cassius waved a hand. “Oh, you’ll only need to answer honestly. They’ll be able to tell if you’re lying. Besides,” and here he shot Talen a crooked little smile that Talen had seen him flash endearingly at Dorian, though this iteration curled sharper at the edges, “I wouldn’t mind a challenge.”

“You – want to talk to me about slavery. In front of magisters.” His stomach turned. Already, he could feel heat prickling the back of his neck at the thought.

“Just so,” Cassius said. Still he smiled, seemingly unaware that what he asked was impossible.

In Tevinter, an elf could not contradict a magister. Talen would be hobbled.

“My time would be best spent preparing for tonight,” he tried.

The kind smile sharpened further, gleaming like the edge of a polished sword. “That is not for you to say, I’m afraid. I insist. Come.” Cassius reached out and pressed a hand to Talen’s elbow, guiding him steadily out of the office and toward the garden.

There was nothing he could do. Talen’s heart thudded sickeningly against his ribs, a sludgy hammering thick with anticipation of what was to come. He would choke on his own blood from biting back the words he could not say here, all for the sake of his secret. All for the sake of the man who held Talen’s conscience, his integrity, to the fire without so much as a second thought.

Cassius led them back out to the garden, stepping around the ornate fountain to where the cluster of magisters sat in a shaded alcove. The low benches were positioned around a small table laden with a spread of preserves and breads and fruit. The alcove had been carved out of the garden by columns and arcing arbors, overgrown with thick vines weighed down by heavy foliage. The broad leaves and tendrils formed a canopy that would have been shaped over years and years to form the perfect meeting place – cool, shaded, and verdant.

Such wealth, Talen thought distantly. Such slow dedication to eventual ends.

“If I might introduce Falon Sabrae,” said Niteo in the common tongue, gesturing to Talen. He gave Talen no title, something Dorian had done deliberately in every instance in which he’d had cause to introduce him. A fabrication – everyone knew he hadn’t title – but one designed to indicate the respect with which he should be addressed.

At the introduction, Dorian’s gaze jerked away from the dark man with whom he’d been speaking. His eyes flared wide for a moment before he carefully shuttered the surprise away.

“Oh, _this_ is your elf,” said a woman wearing a heavy black robe, her face shadowed. Limp curls of dark hair drooped against her cheeks, wrinkles creasing the skin at the edge of her eyes. She shot Dorian a smile, teeth flashing.

“He’s hardly _mine_ , Yanna,” Dorian said, his tone waspish.

“Which is precisely why I’ve asked him to join us,” Cassius said smoothly, gesturing with a broad hand to an unoccupied seat – a wrought-iron chair on its own, tucked underneath the generous shadows of the arbor overhead. “Falon is a free-born elf of the same ilk as Lord Lavellan. And he’s worked with the Inquisitor. He may be able to shed some light on how we would expect the Inquisitor to react in Yanna’s imagined scenario.”

“Oh!” cried the woman, clapping her hands. Her eyes, lined with heavy black kohl, fluttered wide in delight and amusement. “How lovely. A little role-playing, then?”

“I think not,” Cassius murmured. “However, Falon?”

Again, a gesture to the chair.

He eyed the cluster of men and women perched on their benches, glasses of wine in hand.

To them, he was a novelty, as curious as a wild animal in a cage.

If only they knew – and yet they _could not_. He needed to be careful, as precise and calculating as if he were edging unseen through an army. A missed step, and everything would dissolve into blades, blood, chaos.

He stepped over to the chair and sat down. The straps of his dagger sheaths pressed against his shoulders, reminding him of the weight of his blades. He’d dressed for his journey later that evening after their meeting had concluded – and yet this felt all the more dangerous, alert eyes fixed on him, a man standing before him who meant to question him on _slavery_.

“Please,” Cassius said, addressing the magisters sitting in the shaded space, “feel free to put your own questions to me as we progress. Let’s begin.” He turned his attention back to Talen, smile warming his face, as genuine and earnest as any Talen had ever seen.

Such enthusiasm from a man ready to try and justify _owning_ people.

Something brittle cracked inside of him, as a bauble crushed under heel and its true contents revealed. Talen could try to be civil – but his hold on the reins of his fury was tenuous, faltering.

“Yanna, why don’t you put the question to me,” Niteo began.

“Excellent,” said the woman, sipping on her wine. “Tell me, magister, I’ve noticed you keep slaves. How might you justify that? I should imagine it difficult – oughtn’t all living beings be free? Why _do_ you have slaves when you might have servants instead?”  Around her, the other magisters smiled, amused.

Amused, to hear the notion that people deserved freedom. Amused, to have Talen sitting here as their plaything. As the prop to Cassius’s argument.

Niteo shifted his weight, though not in discomfort. Instead, he straightened, made taller with this new posture. The picture of a man ready to do intellectual battle. “You are correct in a small way, my dearest Yanna,” he said, shooting her a warm look. “Slaves have much the same needs as all of us. They need a roof over their heads, food in their bellies, clothes to wear. I need help in running my household. It’s a mutually beneficial exchange.”

An exchange? Talen felt something dark and furious flare in his heart.

“Oh!” laughed a man to his left. “Look at his face! He doesn’t like that.”

“That would be,” Dorian said, still standing stiffly at the edge of the gathering, “because an exchange implies an equal transaction. Trading one’s freedoms for the basic necessities of life is hardly what any of us would call _egalitarian_.”

Cassius shot him a pointed look. “It’s hardly fair if you jump in,” he said. “I’ve already heard all of your arguments. I expect to hear new ones from a Dalish elf.”

Around them, a few whispered words from one magister to another, some shifting bodies, the rustle of robes in shade and sun. In the corner, a man’s mouth lifted into an uneven, cruel smirk.

Dorian couldn’t intervene, Talen realized as he watched these people who looked much like a pack of wolves waiting to leap upon fallen prey. Eager for blood, prepared to turn on the one who’d invited them here and tear his throat out should he show weakness. Dissent among Cassius’s faithful would be like baring the magister’s throat to the knife.

With Dorian turned aside and put firmly back in place, Cassius turned so that he was facing Talen directly.

Had he done this to prove a point, Talen wondered. To show Dorian just how utterly incompetent _his assassin_ was when it came to anything remotely intellectual?

It was easy to argue for anything when your opponent’s hands were bound, his throat stoppered with necessary civility.

“Tell me,” Cassius said, watching Talen as a hawk might track a mouse moving across a broad field, “what precisely makes slavery an institution that ought to be abolished? I would imagine this is your position. I would hear your foundation.”

He _felt_ Dorian bristle as he stood next to the fountain, but Talen would receive no aid from that quarter.

Talen studied the magister before him. Each and every set of eyes were pinned on him, this curious little elf from the south who _dared_ to not be a slave. “Because,” he said slowly, “we’re all born much the same. There’s no reason one person should be a master and another a slave. Freedom is our natural state.”

“Ah, intriguing!” said Cassius, again adjusting his body so that he could direct his response to the magisters arrayed around him. The shadows of the leaves shifted as a breeze passed through the garden, illuminating a patch of sunlight across a cheekbone. “Let me first restate what I imagine to be your position, for clarity’s sake: freedom – self-governance – is the natural state of all persons as all of us are created the same.”

Talen shifted, something itching at the back of his mind. The man laid a trap of some sort, no doubt, but he couldn’t contest the summation. It seemed a reasonable position, one that was certainly more _reasonable_ than enslaving people since birth.

At his silence, Cassius continued. “First, then, the notion that all of us the same. This is where we differ: to my mind, there are those born leaders. They have an ineffable aura, an innate ability that cannot be taught. Others are suited to different tasks. Some enterprise, while others serve and follow. There is no shame to being true to one’s self, only in trying to be something one is not.”

The benches were filled with nodding heads, cruel smiles. A woman took a long drink from her glass of wine, while a man reached for another honeyed date laid out across the table at the center of the gathering.

“One of the few things,” the magister continued, “that our forebears rightly determined is that innate leadership tends to coincide with magical abilities. Touching the Fade so closely imparts, I suspect, greater perspective. Wisdom. A curiosity of mind and clarity of purpose to those who can walk the Fade and withstand temptation.”

“Well put,” purred Yanna, leaning forward. “Although no doubt we would hear the Inquisitor, who is decidedly _not_ a mage, insist that the two need not necessarily coincide.”

“Haven’t your own people determined as much, Falon?” asked Cassius, turning again to his captive. Talen felt his skin prickle under the man’s scrutiny. “Tell me: who leads your Dalish clans?”

Talen’s eyes narrowed. “Keepers.”

“Who are mages.”

“Yes,” Talen said. A man who thought he had a clear picture, but still walked in blindness. “But allow me to make a minor correction: that isn’t _why_ they lead. They are keepers of our traditions, our stories, our history.” The words came out a little sharper than he’d intended, though they still hid the full depth of the sickening anger burning the inside of his skin.

Cassius’s smile remained in place, however vicious the curve at its corners grew. He’d heard the shape of Talen’s words, just as all of the magisters would have heard. Talen had overstepped his place in this game with unfamiliar and unspoken rules. He forced himself to shift his weight, to sit farther back in his seat. He had to build some distance between them if they were to fill the air with dangerous words.

“If that was why they governed, Falon,” Cassius insisted, “if the ability to spin a pretty tale makes one a worthy leader, surely bards would rule all the nations in Thedas.”

“Doesn’t a bard sit as the Divine in the south?” asked a man dressed in green in the back corner. The way he said it, voice thick with suppressed laughter, made Leliana’s position sound like a joke. How little they would laugh if she were here with her ready knives and endless litany of dark secrets that could ruin each and every one of them.

“True enough, Gavril,” Cassius said with a shrug, “though I would suggest that is because of her inherent ability to lead rather than her lovely singing voice. I will admit: there are some who, against the tide of natural currents, are leaders without the accompanying magical ability. The Inquisitor, for one – though it’s worth noting that he _became_ an exceptional leader after he gained the ability to close rifts.”

“What a compelling notion!” Yanna said brightly. “It is one with an inherent logic: to withstand the particular tribulations of the Fade, we must necessarily be of stronger mettle than those who needn’t endure such temptations.”

A nod, Cassius turning to his audience of magisters so eager to have their own beliefs paraded before them under the guise of genuine discussion. “True leaders,” he said, “have an inherent quality that makes the undeniable. It is, I would contend, necessarily different from charisma, though often the two align.”

The irony was enough to make Talen chafe against the restraints placed on him by place and propriety and his need to keep his secret firmly in place. Instead, his gaze tracked again to Dorian, who was pretending not to listen – rather poorly, at that. He sat on the edge of the fountain, head turned away, mouth thinned in frustration.

“And so, you see,” continued Niteo, “I would contest that we are all created the same, and that is not a bad thing. Some are born leaders, some followers. Certain slaves are _inherently_ followers. Given self-direction, they would do nothing but wallow.”

“Quite the argument,” said the man in green – Gavril. “Slaves wouldn’t know what to do with freedom! Wouldn’t our Inquisitor contest that all persons understand freedom innately?”

A hand wave. “We’ve heard tell of the alienages in the south – an exemplar of what happens when those who need the protection offered by our current system are cut loose. Surely not a fate you would wish on all Tevinter slaves.”

He spoke in a way that reminded Talen of Dorian, the sudden comparison coming with a nauseating jolt. Spoken assurances, confidences about what Talen must think or feel or imagine. This is what it meant to discuss things in Tevinter: never an honest word. They were too mired in rhetoric for that.

“Let’s hear from the elf again,” suggested the foul woman, her pinched face both insipid and terribly knowing.

She was pushing him on purpose. She enjoyed this.

“Yes,” Cassius agreed. “Let’s. The contention has been made that slaves are inherently incapable of self-direction.”

 _The contention has been made_ , Talen thought bitterly. _Cassius_ had made the contention and now tried to make it sound as if it were fact. Still, he tried to hone in on the crux of the matter. “I wonder,” Talen said, trying still to coach his thoughts in terms appropriate for one with such a low standing to use, “if there is a difference between inherent qualities and those that are fostered.”

“A clever little thing,” remarked another woman, leaning in close to Yanna, whose smile grew sharper by the minute.

“Yes, _shockingly_ articulate,” sighed Yanna.

“You can contest me on the root cause, fair enough, but the end result is the same,” said Cassius, crowned by sunlight for a moment as the leaves above him parted in an errant breeze. “There are those who cannot function on their own without a guiding hand. I will agree that some slaves are deserving of freedom. I’m even drafting policy to that effect, which will see the Senate floor in a vote this fall. But, in its ideal form – certainly not a reality now, but a possibility – slavery can support the less fortunate, the vulnerable. Which brings me to your second contention: that freedom and self-governance are natural to all of us.”

Such pretty little words. Such dangerous sentiments. Talen watched the man spouting them, the light in his eyes, the animation in his body. This was, he realized, _enjoyable_ for Niteo. How he must relish the chance to practice the art of persuasion, of giving voice to his convoluted argument for upholding a system from which he benefited immeasurably.

The magisters sitting in the garden all leaned in, curious. Their eyes flicked between Cassius, who spoke with perfect confidence, and Talen, who had pressed his back so hard against the back of the chair that the metal rungs bit into his skin.

“I am curious,” Talen found himself saying, without really meaning to, “how _being owned_ could be a natural state.”

To his left, a man tittered. Something amusing in his tone, evidently.

A shadow dropped down over Cassius’s face, dampening the eager cant of his features. “A curiosity I will see sated,” he said, tone sharpening for a moment like the flash of a knife toward a jugular – the flicking of the point an indication of how much worse things _might_ be. “Allow me to move in parallel and offer what may appear to be a rather personal non-sequitur: have you ever been in love?”

“Have I ever been in love?” Talen repeated.

Several of the magisters who’d been mostly silent up until that point laughed, the sound bright with derision. Talen’s heart twisted into a fraying tangle – to hear such sickening amusement at the idea that he might be in love. That _love_ might be worthwhile.

Cassius smiled, however, the genuine and warm expression fixed firmly back in place. But Talen had seen the mask slip. He knew how much Cassius wanted to be leading this discussion – a misnomer, this _sermonizing_ – along paths he had shaped. How this could be winning the confidences of those around him, Talen didn’t know. It seemed rather like a cat toying with a mouse it had caught: Cassius knew Talen had no escape. Not even Dorian could wrest him free. “I know it seems odd. Bear with me,” said the magister.

As if Talen had but to trust in the man’s _guiding hand_. The poor savage assassin, incapable of finding his own footing.

“We can imagine what the Inquisitor might say to such a query,” whispered Yanna to her companion with a vicious little glance thrown in Dorian's direction, so quietly that Talen doubted Cassius caught it.

 _The Inquisitor would as soon see your tongue cut out as hear another word from your mouth_ , thought Talen viciously.

He shifted his weight. Again, he could feel the shape of a trap beneath his feet. Somewhere beneath the warm smile, the seemingly innocent query, was a snare ready to snap shut and break bone. Had he ever been in love. “Yes,” Talen said slowly, drawing the syllable out. “Of course.”

Again, he felt the need to look at Dorian, but he couldn’t. Not after that, not in front of all of these people. He wouldn’t have Cassius thinking him barbaric as well as _simple_.

“And, tell me, what sort of terms of endearment do your people use? In Tevene, we use _amatum_. The one whom I love. The object, as it were, of love – a noun that denotes possession. Enlighten me on Elvish.”

“We say _ma vhenan_ ,” the words so familiar in his mouth that speaking them to _this man_ , in front of _these people_ , felt almost a betrayal. They ought to be reserved for Dorian only, the man who stood at the centre of Talen’s life. “My heart.”

“Ah, you hear it?” Cassius’s gaze flashed around to the other magisters, all of them following his movements with their eyes. He paused to take a sip of wine, allowing them to turn over the phrase in their minds, profaning it, abusing it. “The person who is the object of my love. My heart. _Mine_. In love, we possess another person, make them our own, stake _ownership_. And what could be more natural, more _human_ than love?”

“Oh, that _is_ a charming argument. But, Cassius, couldn’t someone suggest that love is in actuality _selfless_?” Yanna raised her eyebrows. “There has been no small amount of poetry written to that point exactly.”

He turned to her. “And so there is never jealousy, never anything remotely possessive about being in love? Even if you are not a jealous woman, Yanna, you must acknowledge that loving is often jealous. Spiteful, even. Like a child crying because someone else has grabbed its toy.”

He couldn’t resist. Talen turned his eyes on Dorian, who still sat perched on the edge of the fountain. Beneath the placid expression he’d chosen, Talen could see something dark in his gaze. Their eyes met.

The briefest expression of regret flickered across Dorian’s face before he tucked it away.

Yes, Talen thought, we both have cause to regret this.

“I love my wife,” Cassius continued, happily holding the attention of every other person in the garden. “She is the object of my affections, as I am hers. I expect from her loyalty, faithfulness, support; I offer the same in exchange and whatever else I might present her with. My slaves give me their support, loyalty, and services in exchange for the protection, guidance, and well-being I provide. Both are responsibilities equal in my eyes. They are in parallel, and if you, Falon, admit to having been in love, you understand precisely what the institution of slavery might provide to those for whom following is a natural state.”

At his assumed name, Talen refocused on Niteo. Around him, a ring of contented magisters, looking entirely sated at the display before them. _Yes_ , Talen thought, _see how I’ve been outdone with clever and cruel words that, in the end, mean nothing_. These were the people Dorian thought could save Tevinter from itself. This the type of discussion he imagined might make his country _better_.

It was, all of it, foul.

To the side, a scuff as Dorian stood and made his way back toward the little ring of magisters so eager for blood. They all knew Cassius had moved in for the kill: it would be over shortly. Talen shifted and fixed his whole attention on Cassius, who happily rounded out his points.

“You see, then,” said the man who thought slavery was more or less the same as being in love, “that your argument is undone. We are _not_ all the same and there are those for whom being without guiding hand is a cruelty. And, as proven by an examination of love, the desire to possess, protect, and submit are all entirely natural.”

Talen stared at the man blankly. His shoulders were straight, cheeks flushed with wine and enthusiasm, eyes bright in the shaded alcove.

Cassius believed wholeheartedly in all he’d just given voice to, Talen had to believe that much. He felt his stomach turn. This was the man Dorian thought an ideal leader for Tevinter.

A corrupt visionary at the helm of a corrupt nation. They were perfect for each other.

Talen tore his gaze away and fixed his attention on Dorian, who had moved to lean against the arbour across from Cassius – nearest Talen. His posture spoke of nonchalance, but the lines of his body were taut as bowstrings, laying in wait should an attack be imminent.

“And so,” Cassius concluded, “you will agree, Falon, that I have successfully countered each point.”

An order, not a question. He looked up at Cassius, the man whose eyes were bright, whose head was crowned with golden sunlight. At his side, he could _feel_ Dorian, warm and reassuring if perfectly silent. As good a puppet as Talen was when this man pulled the strings so cleverly. “So it would appear,” he said, though each word cut the insides of his cheeks, leaving nothing but the taste of blood heavy on his tongue.

“How intriguing this has been,” remarked Yanna, draining the last drops from her glass and settling it on the table. “I will admit, Cassius, that you argue rather more convincingly than I’d anticipated. You’ve given me food for thought.”

“I should say,” said the man in green. “A man who can make such an argument when his opponent is so entirely opposed to the notion is a man with a bright future ahead of him.”

A strong vote of support. The woman who’d tucked herself close to Yanna’s side raised her eyebrows. “So long as it’s a bright future with not nearly as much blood spilled as we’ve witnessed these past few weeks.”

Cassius’s expression stiffened. “Yes, when we met with the Imperial Archon, he said much the same thing – a matter that is working to its resolution as we speak. Certainly, there are those who wish the bloodbath to continue. We are not among them.”

At the mention of the Archon, several of the magisters blinked in surprise, an expression neatly masked moments thereafter.

The man had tipped his hand. He’d made a play using Talen as his prop and now revealed his final move. Even Talen could hear the thread: _someone does not want us to succeed, but I’ll stop them. I already have the Archon’s favour. Mine is the winning bet_.

In a bustle of activity, the magisters finished their drinks and said their farewells, citing the need to return home to prepare for the evening’s events. As they were departing, none casting even a fleeting glance toward Talen now that his role had concluded, Yanna paused to clasp hands with Cassius, lingering after the others had trailed out of the garden. “You’ve a great deal to offer,” she murmured, “and I will be so blunt as to admit that I am intrigued. One had cause to worry when the rumour was you intended to abolish slavery entirely – for your own well-being, of course.”

“It was never my intention,” Cassius assured her. “I would only seek to make it more just.”

“When you draft your legislation, have a copy sent my way.”

And with that, the garden was empty, save for the magister, Dorian, and Talen.

Cassius let out a long breath, which ended in a short laugh. “Well,” he said brightly, “a vote of support from Yanna, despite everything else – and I expect we’ll have Gavril on side shortly. If Laetitia’s favourite underlings think us worthwhile, I imagine we’ll have her on-side before long, should tonight go as planned.”

Talen pushed himself up, as Dorian set his glass down with a clatter. He glanced, then, at his lover, who had entirely dropped the mask of placid observation.

He was, Talen realized, furious. The knowledged softened some of the sick hurt that ached beneath his breastbone.

“Cassius, that was cruel,” Dorian said. “It was cruel and utterly beneath you.”

Cassius froze, the smile that had been on his face faltering. “It was –”

“ _Cruel_ ,” Dorian repeated. “Putting him on _display_ like that. He isn’t – Falon is helping us, though he doesn’t need to.”

“I know you’re protective,” Cassius began.

A sharp laugh tore from Dorian’s throat, his eyes narrowing. “If you think this has anything to do about being _protective_ , you clearly need to refresh your understanding of appropriate behaviour. And _common decency_ ,” he said. Silence hung between them, pointed and uncomfortable, before Dorian brought it to an end. “I’ve had enough. Shall we?” He turned his attention on Talen, who hovered silently at his side.

He jerked his chin down. Yes, best to be free of this place.

“Dorian,” said Cassius, maneuvering himself so that he blocked their way forward with his broad shoulders. “Wait.”

“I’ve very little to say to you at the moment,” Dorian said, crossing his arms hard against his chest. But still he didn’t move, didn’t brush past the magister, didn’t do anything beyond _look_ at him.

Silence rested heavy in the air, like a cloth draped over the three of them that muted the world beyond. Talen watched the two mages as they looked pointedly at each other. And then Dorian burst into a flurry of Tevene that he fired off so rapidly and furiously that Talen couldn’t even attempt to keep up. Cassius’s forehead creased in concern, in –

Contrition.

When Dorian finished, eyes flashing with anger and his mouth curled with contempt, the magister who they’d come all this way to support simply stood in silence, looking entirely like a dog who’d been scolded for stealing a biscuit from a tray. Dorian’s gaze remained fixed – now that he’d run out of words, he moved on to a communication entirely over Talen’s head.

Talen didn’t belong here, that much he knew. Not talking about slavery in ideals and fancied words, not being circled endlessly by verbal flourishes. Not being put on display so that Cassius could win himself two more votes. Two more votes in the infuriatingly slow political process which would turn over drafts and drafts of legislation, none of it doing what it ought to and abolishing slavery. Revision upon revision, while people _died_ , while they were _tortured_ , bought and sold like animals. Made to believe that slavery was all they could ever have, all they could ever be, while those who held their leashes draped themselves in silk and gold and supped on rare wines and rarer delicacies.

Talen belonged to the Inquisition, to justice, to what genuinely mattered. Not to the realms of Minrathous where Dorian walked, so easily navigating currents and eddies Talen could hardly begin to guess at. It’s why he _had_ Josephine: to illuminate the unseen, to give him enough light that he might walk a path worth walking instead of miring himself in the endless muck of honeyed words and meaningless talk.

No, not meaningless. Just less meaningful than murdered slaves. Certainly, the words and deeds of magister had the power to cause untold destruction. Talen’s priorities, however, rested entirely with those made powerless by empire.

Niteo had the power to shape Tevinter. What he would do with that power remained uncertain.

Dorian’s tirade and searing glare evidently had effect. Cassius sighed and turned to Talen, to the insignificant assassin standing in the cool shadows of the alcove. “Please know,” he said, “that, although I keep slaves, they understand that they are welcome to leave at any point. I wouldn’t wish unwilling servants in my house. Certainly for the peace of my heart, but also for practical reasons. Unhappy slaves have loose tongues, made looser still by the promise of a kinder master. For you, I will remind them again that they are _servants_ in truth. That I pay them in guidance, in lodging, in finery, but that I do not own them. Understand, I do play the game as I must for those around me, but it does not necessarily reflect my heart.”

Talen blinked at him. The man’s lips were tight, his forehead creased, but he looked –

Well, genuine. Chastised, perhaps, though not by the few points Talen had been permitted to give voice to.

Dorian had considerable sway over the magister. He felt for a moment the sinuous uncurling of dark jealousy, which he refused to acknowledge.

“How magnanimous,” Talen murmured, returning Cassius’s rather insincere compliment from earlier in the afternoon.

“There remains the way you’ve treated my dear companion,” Dorian added, “but we are, both of us, called to other things. We’ll speak later, Cassius.”

 _Both of us_ , Talen thought. To be an _us_ with Dorian. Here in Minrathous, here in Niteo’s estate.

“Yes,” Talen said, “I should be going. There’s still your mystery to solve.” Talen moved to angle himself past Niteo, the muscles in his body still taut as if expecting battle. Niteo stepped back and offered his hand in a parting gesture.

It was one Talen endured if only for Dorian’s sake. Niteo’s hands were warm and dry around Talen’s own, his body radiating the heat of a thousand suns as surely as if Talen stood at midday without the respite of shade. Hot enough that he could readily burn. “I enjoy argument,” Niteo said. “Too many hours spent in the Magisterium with those who would see this nation run into the ground for their own avarice. My apologies if I upset you, Falon. Dorian thinks a great deal of you; I would have us be allies.”

Talen looked into the man’s dark eyes, measured precisely the angle of the man’s body toward his own, intended to loom, to tower. A man used to leading, who wanted to govern. “No one agrees on all things,” he demured, the words sour in his mouth even as he voiced them. “That’s hardly reason for ill will.”

With that, they left. The air beyond the estate had never felt so fresh, so clear of corruption. The sweet-smelling garden had been turned sickly in his mind. Rotten.

They walked in silence for a long time, Dorian and Talen, winding their way toward _The Dragon’s Heart_. If they were in a different place, Talen would reach out and take Dorian’s hand in his own – for Talen’s sake entirely. He needed the sense of place, of belonging, after his feet had been so soundly kicked out from underneath him.

But they were in Minrathous. He could have no such comfort.

Finally, when they turned down a dusty little side street that was as empty as it was hot and unshaded, Dorian turned on Talen. “I don’t know _what_ you were thinking,” he snapped. “You can’t _possibly_ have thought that was a good idea.”

Talen froze.

Did Dorian really not know? Did he really believe –

“I tried,” he said carefully, “to divert him from the idea, but I couldn’t.”

“What do you mean _you couldn’t_ ,” Dorian said, his stare dark, arms folded across his body. “There was a door at the front of the house. You might have –”

“ _Dorian_.” By the Creators, the man could be infuriatingly blind. “I couldn’t say no to a magister – _your_ magister – when he told me he required me.”

They drew to a stop in the empty street, Dorian coming up short. For a moment, they were both silent, the only sound distant voices in the marketplace at the end of this avenue and around the corner. Sellers proclaiming the singular virtues of their wares, the particular fineries one might find nowhere else in all the Imperium, or in all of Thedas, if a client looked especially wealthy.

“Oh,” Dorian said finally, a sigh rattling from his throat as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course. You must think me singularly ignorant. If he gave the command –”

“I am but a simple assassin,” Talen supplied drily. “I do as I’m told.”

Dorian huffed, picking up the pace again – channelling his frustration into walking apparently, as suddenly Talen had to rush to keep up. A reversal of their usual state. “He was wretched. It was an awful display, his little song and dance.”

Heat crawled up his neck. An awful display. “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you,” he said after a moment. “Although none of those people particularly seemed worth –”

Again, Dorian came to a stop, blinking at Talen in surprise. “You think you _embarrassed_ me? Sweet Maker, what a bizarre notion. No, if anyone had cause to be embarrassed it was Cassius, well and truly. You, on the other hand, were perfect: entirely proper, but not without backbone. It was a master class in how one ought to behave in social gatherings and Cassius will realize that shortly. Believe me, he will be kicking himself all through this week.”

Warmth unfurled inside of Talen’s chest as the blazing afternoon sun beat against the back of his neck. A crooked smile shaped his lips.

He’d done well. Even in hostile territories, even playing by rules he didn’t understand –

“Well,” Talen said, “So long as he’s kicking himself through the _entire_ week.”

“If he doesn’t, I will,” Dorian insisted, and they were off again. They walked in amicable silence through the streets that connected their neighbourhood with Niteo’s, a series of regular and tidy spaces that weren’t too crowded this time of day, with the sun still crowning the sky.

But Talen couldn’t keep to silence forever. His thoughts traced back to Niteo’s household and the woman Talen had been sure was a servant. Nitela, with her gold collar, her dark curls, her downcast eyes.

“I didn’t know he had slaves,” he said after they passed through the gates demarcating Niteo’s neighbourhood from their own.

“Believe me when I say it’s been a topic we’ve had frequent cause to discuss,” Dorian replied. They turned a corner and headed down a wide thoroughfare that would lead them back to the hotel. On either side stood stalls hung with bright silks and laden with fragrant fruit, bundles of blossoms, soft fabrics, and stunningly intricate metalwork.

None of it, however beautiful, took away from the ugliness Talen had just witnessed firsthand. It was the way of Tevinter: such finery atop such brutality, like lace hiding bruises already purpling.

“He’s single-minded,” Dorian continued, pausing for a moment to consider a bolt of fabric. He waved away the proprietor when she swooped in, continuing to speak to Talen instead. “It can be difficult for one schooled in the ways of the Senate to remember what it’s like for those raised differently. You’ll recall I once made similarly inane arguments – though with more _class_ , I should say. Given time, Cassius does tend to self-correct. Rest assured that all I’ll hear about the entire way to Praeclarus Hall is how _sorry_ he is.”

Talen turned the word over in his mind as they passed through the end of the market and into a bustling thoroughfare. Sorry. How sorry Niteo would be.

Bodies parted before Dorian in subconscious acknowledgement of his status. Marketplaces, even in the finest neighbourhoods, tended to be thick with slaves and Laetans, sometimes Altus citizens who were interested in purchasing goods directly. The merchants would all be Soporati, of course, perpetually bowing and scraping to those with the most coin and influence above them.

Dorian moved through the world with such ease, Talen thought, trailing several steps behind him. Playing the part of slave and servant as always, whether in the highest or lowest corners of the city.

Yes, Dorian had once said much the same thing to Talen about slavery. The difference was that he hadn’t done so for – for _sport_. To show off to an audience so that he might horde even more scraps of influence.

It wasn’t a nuance Dorian would necessarily understand. Yes, Cassius might be _sorry_ about the whole thing, but it would be because he had upset Dorian. For no other reason.

“I wonder,” Talen said as they rounded a corner, slipping under the intermittent shadows cast by the high bushes that made the entire neighbourhood smell sweet, “if he’s as… _worthwhile_ as you think.”

Dorian sighed. “It’s a fair enough question after what he put you through. In short, he is. Believe me when I say that finding someone who has vision but is palatable to enough magisters to actually _make_ that vision a reality is a challenge. And, despite his baser qualities, he remains a fine man.”

An endorsement Talen would simply have to trust, however inaccurate it felt. However much it failed to live up to what Talen had just witnessed. “A fine man who thinks slavery is preferable to unfettered freedom,” he said despite himself.

Dorian, however, was in a forgiving mood. “I never said he didn’t require _work_ – though I’d yet again remind you that I once made similar arguments to those he just merrily spouted. You managed to refrain from stabbing me through the heart and look! I’ve become a picture of loveliness and virtue.”

“One of those is true, Dorian,” said Talen, attempting desperately to wring something good out of the wretched afternoon. “The other is decidedly not.”

“I suppose virtue wouldn’t sit well with me, would it. Why, that would be half my charm, gone.”

They approached the hotel, where Talen hesitated. The bitterness of the afternoon left him restless, the allure of night and perhaps _answers_ drawing him away. A balm to the hurt Niteo had inflicted. The sun overhead had long since begun its trek toward the horizon, casting ever-lengthening shadows across the streets. “I should make my way to the harbour,” he said.

Dorian huffed. “You should do no such thing, not yet. Surely you’ve a few hours to spare. I won’t be leaving for the ball until well after the sun has gone down. Hours and hours to _whittle away_ , as they say.”

Talen’s skin prickled with awareness as Dorian’s gaze pinned him in place, afternoon sun hot against his bare arms.

It wasn’t a wise decision necessarily, but it was the one he needed to make. Talen paused, studying his lover. The lines of his face, the light in his eyes. Dust motes danced in the sunlight above his head, a crown of light in the late hours of the day. Horses had just been stabled, trailing behind them particles of straw – a halo in the bright air.

A man who was his ally in all things, in _every_ thing. Who’d done all that he might to stand by Talen’s side even when the situation made it impossible.

He forced his shoulders to loosen, to settle, so that the straps that held his daggers in place stopped cutting into his flesh. A deep breath, then another.

“Shall we, then?” Talen asked.

They slipped in through the cool and dark interior of the hotel, so quiet now that the mathematician had left – a man who’d been prone to throwing rather raucous gatherings with his esteemed colleagues from the University. Once they crested the stairs and made it through the doorway, the suite lit up in the gold tones of the afternoon, Dorian pushed him soundly up against a wall.

“You,” he said, “were rather exceptional.” A pause. “ _Are_ rather exceptional,” he clarified.

The wall was firm against his back, cool even through his clothes. Heat flushed his cheeks, trickling through each vein and pooling in his belly. “You didn’t think I showed myself to be _uncultured_?”

Dorian scoffed, one hand braced against the wall just over Talen’s shoulder, the other pressed insistently against his hip. “If anyone appeared _uncultured_ , it was Cassius. You were a picture of propriety, amatus – although I’m also rather fond of your moments of… impropriety.”

“Are you?” Talen murmured, hands seeking out the folds of Dorian’s robes, crumpling the soft fabric in his palms. Dorian’s skin radiated heat, as unrelenting as the sun that beat down against the city’s marble walls.

“Tevinter is a land of honeyed words. Believe me when I say I find them sickening more often than not.”

“And so it’s words from the mouth of a savage that appeal to you?” asked Talen. Dorian’s body tilted in close, hovering over his own. He could hear the distant sounds of the horse’s hooves outside, conversation in the courtyard – everything muffled, made faint in the searing heat of the day.

“Everything about you appeals to me,” said Dorian. “Although what you do with your mouth does retain a _special place_ in my heart.”

“Special enough to wrest you away from politicking for a few hours?”

“Special enough to wrest me away from anything, amatus.”

The edge of Talen’s mouth curled. As sweet as a cool breeze to hear his lover say those words. Tevinter may had birthed Dorian, but he’d been made into something else. He might love the Imperium, might cherish it, but if he still placed his heart with Talen –

In the end, Tevinter couldn’t have him. Wouldn’t have him.

“Cassius was right about a thing or two,” Talen admitted. He uncurled his hands, smoothing the front of Dorian’s robes.

“Oh? And what might that have been? He’ll want to know. I want to know.”

“You may not wish to share them.” He blinked up at his lover, a picture of innocence. “I know precisely how possessive love can be, and how dark and dangerous a thing jealousy is.”

“You’re – _jealous_?” Dorian’s eyes fluttered wider for a moment, a mark of genuine surprise.

“Of course I am,” murmured Talen. “You spend nearly every waking hour with the man who may one day be Archon, who is absurdly handsome for someone so mired in political _shit_.” A pause, and something small and fragile and bruised stirred inside of his chest. “Although – Dorian. You do know when I call you _ma vhenan_ , I don’t mean –”

Because the name had been made foul in the mouths of magisters, turned into something petty, a marker of his jealousy rather than the truth.

“I don’t mean that I own you,” he finished, eyes pinned on the hollow at the base of Dorian’s throat. Easier to say it when he wasn’t staring his lover in the eyes. Easier to expose himself in this way, raw and bruised and wary. “Rather that my heart now dwells with you. It’s that I’ve _given you_ my heart, not that I have made you mine.”

A small silence grew between them. Dorian’s hand, still resting at Talen’s hip, had relaxed its insistent grip.

He glanced up, heartbeat unsteady in his chest. Dorian’s expression was soft, though. Warm. The promise that everything would be alright. “Of course I know that,” his lover said with a quiet certainty that immediately soothed the hurt in Talen’s heart, which drained the fluttering worry from his blood.

Talen puffed out a relieved breath, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Well, _ma vhenan_ ,” he said, “if we are understood, I should think I’d like to have my heart inside of me once again.”

A laugh, bright and coppery as the air swelled with heat and longing around them. “Endlessly charming,” he murmured, “your little moments of impropriety. How I do adore you.” With firm hands, Dorian tugged Talen away from the wall and back toward the bedroom.

If only Minrathous could always be like this – standing at the cusp of change and allied against the country’s worst vices while lost in sunlight and a tangle of sweat-slicked skin and limbs and feverish mouths. A country with some redeemable qualities in the end.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a hard chapter to write. It's also one of the very first I conceptualized and I had huge chunks mapped out before actually setting down to write it -- at which point I kind of dissolved into a puddle of panic and real life stress and substantial tone/plot problems and a kind of overwhelming terror? Thankfully, the internet gods gifted me with the glorious [spycaptain](http://spycaptain.tumblr.com), who insisted that I take a breather. She then read over my panicky mess, told me it was all going to be okay, and got my life back on track. Seriously, I am a lucky person.
> 
> I am _also_ lucky because my phenomenal friend [doriansparkler](http://doriansparkler.tumblr.com) took my slider values and recreated Talen for me so that I would have pictures that _weren't_ cellphone pictures of my sad TV which was, even more sadly, running DA:I on PS3. They are glorious and [you should look at them](http://mstigergun.tumblr.com/post/113745913793/hey-do-you-know-what-is-amazing-doriansparkler). HOW AM I THIS LUCKY.
> 
> And hey, reader, if you'd like to join the enthusiastic appreciation fest over on Tumblr, you can find me at [mstigergun](http://mstigergun.tumblr.com). I really like meeting new people! I am a big dork! Be my friend! I will aggressively compliment you and encourage you in all of your endeavours!
> 
> As always, comments mean a great deal to me, so if you've liked part of this, or if a certain someone and his blathering in this chapter has made you super mad and you need to express your fury, comment away.
> 
> Also, a thanks to andrastians for [this post](http://knighted.co.vu/post/106864910708/ok-but-can-we-talk-about-dorian-saying-amatus) about thoughts on Tevene and the word _amatus_. Clearly, it's an idea I've chosen to run with!


	6. All Around Them Echoed

**Chapter 6: All Around Them Echoed**

_Above them, a river of Light,_  
_Before them the throne of Heaven, waiting,_  
_Beneath their feet_  
_The footprints of the Maker,_  
_And all around them echoed a vast_  
_Silence._  
(Threnodies 8:13)

*

Would that the world were such that this might be the shape of Dorian’s life: afternoon sunlight softly diffused through drawn white curtains, the buzzing lull of the city under the day’s dying heat, his warm and contented lover at his side. It was almost possible to forget that the same city that cradled them in its white-walled glory threatened to drag each of them down into the mud with the horrors of murder and schemes and black-hearted plotting.

_Almost_ possible. Even the weight of Talen’s head against his shoulder couldn’t distract the particular prickling of Dorian’s thoughts once they’d started tripping down that thorny path.

It was as if Talen could sense the shift the very moment his mind turned his attention to Laetitia Cautens and her ilk. At once, before Dorian had so much as called the woman’s face to mind, Talen uncurled his body, stretching as the yellow light spilled across the bed. The muscles of his shoulders were carved from shadow and cut from bronze.

He shifted, threw a glancing look at Dorian. “We both have places to be,” he said.

Talen had the good graces to sound as resigned as Dorian felt, and the tact to not put that part into words.

A remarkable man in each and every way.

Dorian sighed as Talen stood and pulled on his clothes, changing in an instant from Dorian’s familiar lover into a remarkably tactful assassin. He could be all things: the specter of death and shadow, the leader of the Inquisition, a generous lover, a selfless partner. Hero to the downtrodden, even.

He might be all of those things, yes, but Dorian was also a man of many facets. And circumstances demanded now that he once again become a loyal son of Tevinter and a stalwart ally of the man Dorian hoped might change it for the better. Which required that he sup on insipid conversations and share honeyed words with those whom the Imperium might be better off without.

A dreadfully wearisome game, this endless shifting of position to maintain some semblance of order. Keeping everyone placated was a puzzle that might not have a solution.

It was what must be done, as Laetitia’s votes were now completely necessary. Just as Talen’s work uncovering the secrets in Minrathous’s dark heart was completely necessary. Cassius needed both: greater numbers of votes and the Archon’s support once the vulgar little mystery of deaths was put to rest.

He loosed a long, heavy sigh.

Talen glanced over his shoulder as he tugged on dark gauntlets. “Is that so?” A smile curled the corner of his mouth.

“I wouldn’t mind trading champagne in for blood,” Dorian said as he forcibly pulled himself from bed and cast his mind toward the evening that stretched before him. “Not tonight. I’ll likely be unable to extricate myself until _all_ hours of the night, though I’d much rather be here with you – and hear of your evening’s discoveries.”

“If you’d like, _ma vhenan_ , I might command you to return at a reasonable hour. Seeing that you are the _object_ of my love. As your magister so deftly put it.” Talen chased it with a wry smile, but one that failed to warm his eyes.

It was a fair enough reaction to being verbally flayed in front of an array of rather foul people.

Although – _your magister_. Talen, jealous! Still the revelation astounded Dorian. The man who held the south in the palm of his hand, who had, with that same hand, saved all of them from destruction. That singular creature, jealous of Cassius’s attentions, of the time Dorian spent in Cassius’s company. As grand as Cassius’s plans for Tevinter, the magister could not hold a candle to the Inquisitor, not in any possible way.

Dorian stumbled across these peculiar darknesses from time to time, and they remained eternally perplexing. That such a man could be so fundamentally concerned that he was inadequate.

A preposterous thought, one Dorian would see put to rest immediately.

“I suppose,” he began, pulling on a loose silk robe and knotting the belt, “that if I stayed any later, I might be forced to dance with the young lady in question. There are only so many ways one can demure without saying, _no, I’d rather avoid having my toes stepped on, thank you very much_. I’ve seen both her parents dance; I would avoid a similar fate.”

Talen smiled, then, a crooked grin as bright as the sun itself.

He was, Dorian realized, _surprised_. Delighted, even.

Was his lover so very desperate for even a few moments of his time? The thought at once twisted a knot underneath Dorian’s heart – he was not good enough for this man by half – and made his chest constrict as though bound by ropes pulled ever tighter.

It had been different in Skyhold, this wanting. This _need_ of Talen’s to be with him always. There, with his attendant duties as Inquisitor, he at least had things that necessarily pulled him away while Dorian waited in the wings to steal a few moments of his time.

Now it was Dorian who felt himself tugged in too many directions all at once. Advisor, researcher, man charged with unearthing the mystery simmering at the heart of Minrathous by the Archon himself – all whilst trying to save his nation from itself and be a steadfast lover.

Dorian didn’t know how to be needed in this way. Certainly not here in the Imperium, where everything was both familiar and strange. He knew how to be here, but not as he was now. Not as one part of a couple, not as a man helping to shape a nation’s future while remaining tied to a lover with demands of his own.

With dark thoughts fanning out in his mind, they parted ways, Dorian carefully blotting any trace of his cogitation from their farewell.

The reality of a relationship was different from the half-formed dreams Dorian had nursed when last he’d been in Minrathous. Then, he’d allowed himself to imagine how it might feel to be cherished, to be a source of pride rather than of shame. Now, however, Dorian found his heart necessarily divided: he desired to be all that Talen hoped he might be, and yet _he_ needed to do everything within his power to see the Imperium made better. He had to act for Tevinter, while scrambling to align himself with his lover’s aspirations, with Talen’s perfect and just heart.

A difficult task if not an impossible one. As Inquisitor, Talen understood compromise. As Dorian’s lover –

However justified, however noble, Talen’s priorities made Dorian’s work infinitely more complicated. His singular focus on the plight of elves left Dorian no other route but to disappoint, not here in the nation built upon the downtrodden. Dorian was endlessly proud of his lover, but the specter of his own inevitable failure to win that pride for himself, to prove himself worthy of the love Talen so freely gave –

It was not unlike standing at the very edge of a precipice and hearing the wind roar at one’s back. The fall would come. He could only maintain this precarious balancing act for so long.

And so off Talen went to uncover some black market scheme involving slaves and underworld organizations while Dorian went to a coming-of-age party to court the moderate vote. To no doubt concede on points with an eye toward ideal outcomes. To feel his heels slip forward toward the brink of _disappointment_.

Talen was relentless. Dorian, on the other hand, had no choice _but_ to relent on whatever issues Laetitia deemed salient. And he’d had a taste of her underling’s thoughts on slavery, on the national identity, this afternoon – no doubt her mind ran along similar lines.

Inside of him, the arguments already unspooled, a tangle of threads too knotted to ever extricate. He spent the rest of the afternoon trying and failing to wrest his thoughts to more pertinent matters, things that didn’t leave his throat constricted or flame a dark ache underneath his breastbone. Away from imagined arguments. It was a beautiful afternoon for thinking of things more political and less… emotional.

Long, golden hours unfolded before him, filled with nothing but the scent of rosewater and the bouquets of lavender and stunning, soft-petaled roses that the household slaves had placed around the suite. When the sky finally began to darken beyond the pale curtains and Dorian found himself unable to read even another sentence in the book he’d been staring at blankly for ages – a very interesting history, too, of the early days of the fight for Seheron – he turned to getting ready for the evening ahead.

When Cassius finally arrived at the hotel, Petra arriving at Dorian’s door to announce the magister’s presence, Dorian was well and truly ready to get the evening started. And ended. Better to think on politics than the ways in which he would disappoint his lover. Better to secure Cassius’s majority and turn to other things less likely to leave him broken.

Staying alone in the suite had made him restless, unsettled. Like he might crawl out of his skin were he left for another moment without something to _do_.

“Well, look at you,” Cassius said, leaning against the doorframe as Dorian fussed with his hair in the obsidian-ringed oval mirror. In Cassius’s hands, two packages tied nearly in brightly-patterned silk.

Cassius was a man who apologized with gifts. Inordinately expensive gifts.

Should there be an apology to be had, Dorian supposed _that_ was the way to go about it.

Still, it would do no good to let him off quite that easily. Dorian sniffed and pointedly ignored the proffered gifts. Instead, he adjusted the particular cant of the high collar, the silver royal sea silk pale against the brown skin of his throat. The cut made him look taller, his neck a graceful line. “Yes, well, a pariah can hardly afford to show up to Praeclarus Hall looking shabby now, can he? I aim to impress. Wasn’t that your intent? That I _impress_ your way to a majority vote? Or would you rather I stand in silence as you make a fool of yourself?”

A small laugh, one edged in tarnished silver. “Yes, yes, I’m a truly spectacular ass. You, Master Pavus, remain endlessly impressive. Why, without your guidance, I should expect to have failed long before I even began this… politicking.”

Dorian’s fingers stilled. He shot Cassius a quick look. “False humility is even less appealing than genuine humility, Cassius,” he said.

But Cassius’s brow had tilted down into a shockingly earnest line, one that entirely rearranged the shape of his features. He looked immediately younger – still a foolish boy playing at things bigger than he’d imagined. A youth who’d knocked an expensive vase off its stand, suitably chastised.

That couldn’t stand. Cassius had none of the excuses a clumsy youth might, and the vases he tipped had far greater consequences than a few shards of shattered porcelain and a mother’s outrage.

He pivoted to look at Cassius. “I returned to Minrathous because I expected better,” said Dorian. “Not tawdry displays better suited to children than adults. Not vulgarity nor cruelty. Had I known this would be the way you receive my guest, I wouldn’t have bothered coming. You do yourself no credit; you do this country no credit, not when you allow yourself to be pulled into this kind of muck. You certainly do _me_ no credit. If you expect the Magisterium to become a less wretched place – ”

But even as the words fell from Dorian’s lips, a reiteration of his earlier chastisement, he found them soured. Far more difficult to feel properly outraged when one’s target only looked more and more miserable.

Tact, Dorian supposed, sometimes meant understanding when to rein in one’s unfettered thoughts. “You had best begin with examining your own disposition. Your own petty prejudices. Spend a few moments on introspection, my friend, and we’ll no doubt find ourselves aligned again,” he finished.

Cassius stood in silence, gaze angled away from Dorian’s.

Another scolding would do no one any good, not when the evening required such a delicate touch. He’d said his part – _again_ – and that would be the end of it. Dorian looked back at his own reflection. The skin around his eyes was tight. “Just try to leave the _impressing_ to me tonight, yes? I think we’re all better off without your attempts to dazzle a crowd. You discuss policy while I charm. It’s worked rather well so far.”

Cassius tipped his shoulder against the wall, some of the tension draining from his features. He’d chosen darker tones for his own outfit, which made his eyes seem all the more brilliant, his stare more piercing. The palette reflected the colours worn by the Archon, a suggestion of Radonis’s power echoing across Cassius. A subtle, subconscious effect on would-be supporters or else a means to hint at alliance and thus make himself more appealing as an ally. “ _You’ve_ done well so far, Dorian. Now if we could just stop those who’ve been impressed from being subsequently gutted…”

“Hopefully tonight will see us to some answers. Either from our end of things or from Falon’s.” Dorian straightened, readjusted the elegant drape of the sumptuous cobalt cambric – a colour difficult to obtain in such clarity in the light fabric. But he was in Minrathous again, where true craftsmanship reached its greatest heights.

At Talen’s assumed name, Cassius cleared his throat and straightened. An awkward movement, his entire stance growing stiffer, less certain. “I don’t suppose your assassin is around, is he?”

“Of course not,” Dorian said. “He’s too busy finding your answers to linger. Even for well-deserved apologies.”

A sigh, long and loud. Cassius’s hands tightened around the packages. “Oh, Dorian, I well and truly put my foot in it, didn’t I? Your assassin – should I be expect to wake in the night only to find a dagger through the heart the next breath?”

“Hardly! Lord Sabrae is a great deal more subtle than that. You’d be dead before you even realized that you had cause for concern.”

A flare of his eyes before the man tamped it down. “In any case,” said Cassius, thrusting the packages toward Dorian, “a small token of my realization that I can be entirely asinine. Although I acknowledge that gifts fail to offer adequate recompense –”

Dorian took the packages. They were weighty, solid, the silk damp from where Cassius’s palms had lingered. “You hardly need to dazzle with rhetoric now, Cassius,” Dorian offered. “A simple apology will suffice. I’ve heard enough of the verbal self-flagellation, thank you.”

“Then I apologize,” Cassius said, swallowing – as if the words had caught in his throat. He ducked his head slightly, a half-formed bow, something equal parts foreign and familiar. Intimate in its loose line, formal by its very nature. “I do hope I might redeem myself in your eyes – if not to set my own heart at ease then for the benefit of the entire nation. I can’t do this without you, Dorian. Never doubt that you’re absolutely crucial.”

“Why, of course not,” Dorian said breezily, setting the gifts down on the small table beneath the mirror. He smiled, then, a bright and broad smile – one that hid the sudden prickling he felt, the uncomfortable tenor of the entire situation. “And _gifts_ are a good place to begin if one hopes to win back my affections.”

“And I do.” A sharp gesture toward the smaller of the packages. “That would be yours.”

Dorian reached and neatly untied the knot holding the silk in place. It spooled down across the flat pane of the table, revealing a silver box clasped with a gold lock. The lock, small and impossibly delicate, was the sort of thing he recognized, something that sang to him of Tevinter. There was no key and yet it would resist all efforts to open it – unless one applied the smallest flicker of magic. In place of a rogue’s tools, the tiniest sliver of a spell would reveal its hidden contents.

They were dreadfully expensive, these _osculud dracal_. They were also the perfect exemplar of what lay in the Imperium’s heart. Mages might access worlds unavailable through design to those _lesser than_. For those tethered to the Fade, unknown riches. For everyone else? They might stare from afar, but never, ever touch.

With a flick of Dorian’s thumb, the lock gave way. Nestled against the black velvet was a silver ring shaped as a serpent. Between the sharp fangs and held lovingly in the yawning mouth, a tightly-faceted emerald so very green it made the world pale around it. Dorian plucked it from the box. “ _Really_ ,” he murmured, running the pad of his thumb across the gem, the sharp little fangs that would cut if tested, “you shouldn’t have.”

“A small token. And something of home: it’s from the old mines to the west. Before they were emptied.”

“And the _osculud dracal_ ,” Dorian said, turning his attention to the box resting in the palm of his hand. His fingers traced the fine geometic shapes, the delicate lines of the clasp. “It’s exquisitely crafted. The lock is so often clumsy to accommodate the enchantment, but this one is remarkable. And it’s entirely diffused any trace of its own patterning.”

His smile grew brighter, pleased. “It came into my family when our line merged with the Balteus family several hundred years past.”

Dorian’s fingers paused. To share such a family treasure –

Cassius cleared his throat, rendered again uncertain. “Well,” he said, “you’ve opened a great many doors for me. I thought I might echo but a tiny measure of that kindness.”

It was too much, but Dorian could adjust the tone back to familiar and more comfortable realms. “Cassius,” he said, “that is _vile_. How dreadfully sentimental – although I am, of course, entirely enchanted. The south has made me weak.”

A laugh. “I think not,” Cassius said, his tone bright as sun off water. “Quite the opposite. And should affection make us weak, it’s a weakness I readily accept.” He paused, gaze flicking between Dorian’s hands and his face, before continuing. “And for Falon – well. I don’t know much about him aside from the fact that he’s quite good at _killing_ things, so of course a blade –”

Dorian huffed a short laugh, slipping the heavy ring onto his left hand. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate it. He does have a certain affinity for death.”

“How fortunate we are that he does,” murmured Cassius. His gaze slipped past Dorian to the darkening panels of fabric separating the suite from the streets beyond. “We want to be fashionably late, but not _dreadfully_ late. There’s a great deal of politicking to be done if we hope to secure Aurelia’s seat – and win Laetitia and her attending votes. If you’ve finished fussing?”

“Ha,” Dorian barked. “I should hardly call it _fussing_ , Cassius, not when that very same attention-to-detail is what will win you the Magisterium.”

It was a promise he didn’t entirely feel the truth of spoken with a confidence he certainly didn’t feel. Still, he _would_ see this nation better, regardless the cost. His fingers lingered for a moment on the cool weight of his new ring, which held all the solemnity of his vow. Which spoke of his dedication, his decision: to leave the south and return to the Imperium for the sake of his nation. To ally himself with a man who, thought he could truly be an idiot, would see Tevinter rendered more civilized, more modern, more prosperous and just. It was why Dorian had come, however torn he felt on occasion – and this ring, which was heavy and chill, reminded him persistently. A promise made corporeal.

He hadn’t time to think any more on it, the significance of this particular little token. How it marked him, what he proclaimed in wearing it. What he set aside to put it on. Instead, Dorian looked himself over once more – in absolutely immaculate form, if he did say so himself – and moved toward the door.

“I’ll need you to approach Laetitia,” Cassius offered, as they finally slipped downstairs and into the waiting carriage, a small and exquisitely shaped transport pulled by two very fine white horses. He held the door as Dorian climbed inside.

“Are we going without Aurelia?” asked Dorian.

“She’ll meet us at Praeclarus Hall. Her First Enchanter hired a palanquin to take her, so Aurelia managed to convince Hione to share her ride – a long enough time to have access to her ear for a successful conversation, I should think.”

Dorian hummed low in his throat. The carriage was dim, its movement slow and steady through the city. The smell of horses and distant spices – cinnamon and cardamon, fragrant enough to linger in the air – fluttered through the light curtains that were drawn shut over the doors to provide privacy. “So,” Dorian said, turning his mind back to Cassius’s earlier point. “Laetitia Cautens. My target for the evening?”

“She _does_ wish to speak,” said Cassius. “I’ve had indication from her inner circle, but a direct approach would be a little too – obvious, for her taste. She won’t want to be seen speaking with me at any great length. You, however, are able to hold a conversation with anyone without provoking the same scrutiny, and if you let _her_ lead the conversation, she will make herself clear. All while seeming merely interested in the curious south! Everyone’s heard about your wonderful stories. Did I tell you _I’d_ been asked to recount one? My own wife demanded that I _tell the one about Halamshiral again_.”

“Everyone just wants to laugh at Orlesians,” Dorian said. “And I can hardly blame them. The whole affair was bizarre: secret lovers, halla statues, and oddly banal blackmail that, ordinary and quaint as it was, I dare not repeat else the nation fall. Oh, and the Inquisitor asked to retrieve a lost ring! Hardly the stuff of good stories.”

Cassius shook his head, a crooked smile broad on his face. “A great many magisters disagree, Dorian, but we do like to laugh at the triviality of the south. In any case, Laetitia has pretense enough to speak with you and you’ve skill enough to convince her to tip her cards. If we know what she _needs_ , we’ll be able to secure her vote, all without making it clear to every magister in attendance that we’re in collaboration. And of course I’ll work on Aurelia’s situation – the vote approaches and she’s less certain of an appointment than I’d like.”

“And I suppose Gratian Ditas will be in attendance,” Dorian said.

Of course he would be. Because Dorian didn’t have enough to look forward to this evening.

At least he’d gotten a glorious robe out of the whole debacle.

“I’ve had confirmation of that this afternoon. You can leave him to me. If he has had something to do with the murders –” A pause, and Cassius adjusted his body, glancing away as he lifted a finger to draw back a curtain and look outside at the city beyond. The streets in this quarter were still full, every tradesperson and merchant and fishmonger’s wife coming out in the cool hours of the evening to buy and sell goods, to gossip and stare at the parade of Altus travellers heading out the northern gates. “Well,” he continued after a lengthy pause, “I wouldn’t have you put in any more danger than you are through affiliation alone.”

Dorian felt, then, just how small the carriage was. The particular weight of the silver ring on his finger. The absence of his lover by his side.

“I would avoid him through natural inclination,” Dorian said. “Still, I wouldn’t want you to think I’m _afraid_ of him. Maker knows I could best the man in a duel – and if you think otherwise, I may need to stumble into a heated argument that can see resolution only through _spectacular murder_ to win back an iota of your respect.”

Cassius’s lips curled in a smile. “You already have all of my respect. Any more and I’d offer you my position in the Magisterium.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow, shooting Cassius a pointed look. “Now, now, that would never work. I’d have the Archon staring at me _all day_ , thinking about what I do behind closed doors. The nation wouldn’t survive.”

But instead of laughing amicably, Cassius’s features tightened with gravitas. “In all seriousness, Dorian,” he said, “I wish you’d consider staying. Your father – he’s started making sounds about stepping back. You would inherit his position if you stayed.”

The mention of Dorian’s father curdled his blood. He’d done _so_ well not thinking about Halward or his intentions for Dorian, the plan that would have seen him a husk of himself – but a husk that could father children and occupy a seat in the Magisterium. Even if he spent the whole time watching the _pretty lights_. “I would inherit nothing,” Dorian said, the words ashy in his mouth. “He’s made the clear enough.”

Cassius pressed the point. “Halward isn’t unreasonable, just old-fashioned. You _know_ we count him among the progressives upon whose votes we can rely. If I spoke with him –”

“No,” Dorian said flatly. “I’m here to help _you_ , Cassius. I’m not here for myself beyond fulfilling my need to see Tevinter into the modern age. A rather selfish thing, to want to prove that even a man so _corrupt_ as I am can better the Imperium, but that’s the end of it.”

Outside of the carriage, darkness fell. The curtains were illuminated only by silver moonlight, distant and cold. “If you’re certain,” Cassius murmured, turning away again. “Though I will hate to lose you to Skyhold once again.”

“You might come and visit,” said Dorian. “Meet the Inquisitor. He is, as you said, a rather unusual leader. Such a mind grown from unlikely soil!”

“I hope to. I should like to begin repairing our alliance. So many of our goals are similar, your Inquisitor and I: to see lasting peace and prosperity, a world made stable once again. Although,” and here Cassius readjusted himself, turned to face Dorian more directly, forehead creased. “Will it be difficult for you to go back, now that you’ve gone your separate ways? You _have_ , haven’t you? Or have I misunderstood?”

The series of questions lined up in Dorian’s mind, much as books on a shelf – though instead of feeling orderly, they became eerily strange. Like dreaming of a familiar place made disorderly in a dream. Tomes written in scripts not known to the waking realm, books bound in silver and obsidian and written in moonlight.

To be _asked_. For Cassius to ask –

Well, they _had_ gone their separate ways: Dorian had stepped into the light, Talen into the darkness. Dorian had accepted the mantle of his social standing, while Talen relinquished his.

But that wasn’t what Cassius had asked. He wanted to know if the Inquisitor still held Dorian’s heart.

He shot Cassius an open stare. For Cassius to put such a blunt question to him – It was entirely unlike the magister, entirely unlike _Tevinter_.

“Ah, you think I’m being rude,” Cassius murmured, the crease in his forehead deepening. “I can see why. One oughtn’t be openly curious, but should appear disinterested in each and every thing. I ask, Dorian, because you are not only my ally. You’re my friend. It is, as far as I understand, what friends do: _care_ about each other. Although I am rather out of practice, I will admit. The Magisterium is hardly the place for making friends.”

“Don’t I know,” said Dorian distantly, still transfixed.

His friend. How odd that he should find Tevinter made _friendlier_ after he’d left her for the south. That he should find the circles that were once so alienating… well, welcoming would be inaccurate, but certainly less hostile. In certain quarters, as it were.

“I also ask entirely in self-interest, of course,” Cassius amended, the distant light of the lanterns outside of the carriage outlining his sly grin. “I’ve an unattached cousin in Antiva. He’s very clever and handsome. He’s also quite wealthy. And should you be looking for a new attachment, I wouldn’t be averse to adding you to my family. Maker knows I’d rather you than that merchant prince’s son he’s been mooning over for the better part of the year.”

“You – want me to _woo_ your cousin,” Dorian repeated. His head spun in thedark confines of the carriage. To be _set up_ by a magister, a man who might yet shape the Imperium and wanted to be Dorian’s _friend_ –

“You’d hardly have to try. You enchant everyone you meet, Dorian,” said Cassius plainly.

The world had gone mad. Still, it hadn’t gone quite mad enough for Dorian to consider an Antivan. He huffed and rolled his eyes. “An _Antivan_ , though,” he said, putting the thought to words. “You must think me entirely without standards.”

“Not Antiva? Very well. Let’s draft a list of acceptable countries of origin and I’ll do what I might to find you a suitable match.”

“You’re hardly going to _marry me off_ , Cassius. You’re not my mother,” Dorian said, arms folded across his body – but it was a tone he felt himself shrug on. Something comfortable and familiar and _far_ better in this iteration than his parents’ attempts to see him wed.

In this, he felt… visible.

Cassius snorted. “I should say I’ve a better grasp of what you’re looking for than she does. In any case, consider this an interesting little diversion. What do you think of Rivain?”

And with that, their conversation turned to lighter matters – which included an in-depth discussion of the curious dignitaries Dorian had met in Skyhold and all of their nationally-representative flaws – until they arrived at Praeclarus Hall.  

The Hall stood exactly as Dorian remembered from years past when the Laminus’s mid-winter ball was the highlight of the season. To be fair, a sparse season as far as grand events were concerned, but the Laminus family still knew how to shape a successful evening.

Already, carriages and horses lined the grand courtyard. Cassius slipped from the carriage first, offering Dorian a hand as he dropped out.

The estate was tall and wide, its elegant columns but an echo of the grandeur of those that marked the entrance to the Senate, though they were equal in craftsmanship. Indeed, Praeclarus Hall had at one time been the official home to the man who held the title of Archon. It had eventually been sold in favour of constructing a contemporary dwelling within the city.

One _without_ the subterranean chambers in which all manner of foul magic had been performed. Those same caverns now held a vast collection of fine wines and huge amounts of coin. A far better use of space, though the Laminus family certainly enjoyed the infamy of their cellars and had been known to give rather gruesome guided tours.

Ornate bronze braziers lit the approach to the house, spilling golden light over its steps and entryway. Outside, the front gardens and courtyard were filled with mages, magister and Altus alike, milling about and speaking anything but the truth.

“Shall we?” Cassius stood, his shoulders straight, eyes surveying the scene as might a hawk over a field.

“But of course,” said Dorian, and together they made their way into the heart of Tevinter politicking itself.

This was not Orlais. There were no masks here. The players in this game were far too accomplished to have need of props.

The inside of the hall was as grand as its exterior, the floors a fine, geometric mosaic. The adjacent rooms were neatly cordoned off or else separated by plush curtains pulled back to create a free flow of bodies. Once the evening pressed on, the curtains would be allowed to flutter shut. It was then that the true nature of the celebration would be revealed: alliances made and shattered, words hissed under breath that had the power to end lives, conspiracies hatched.

Still, this early in the evening the purpose was clear: dancing to celebrate a very pleased young woman who’d just come of age. Dorian and Cassius made their greetings in the main hall, each in turn clasping the hands of the dewy-skinned girl who stood flushed already with wine and pride.

“I hope I might have a dance later, Master Pavus,” said Xenia Laminus, as Dorian smiled pleasantly down at her. Her hands remained fixed in his own. “I’ve heard a great deal about Halamshiral and know you attended the celebration that saw the Empress’s death. I would learn all that I could of Orlesian festivities as I may very well have an Orlesian husband in the near future.”

“An _Orlesian_ husband? My dear, whatever for?”

Her smile stiffened. The dark curls that framed her face stuck to the sheen of sweat across her temples. “We maintain our fortune in no small part due to the trade of wine and spirits. There is an Orlesian lord, recently made widower, who has vast vineyards among his holdings and a network of open throats and open purses even more impressive still.” The girl’s fingers dug into the skin of Dorian’s wrists a little harder than strictly necessary.

She was scared underneath the mask she’d worn this evening, that of a flushed and contented young woman recently come of age.

“Orlais is, for all its quaint particularities, a fine country, Lady Laminus. You would be quite happy there. A thing we can discuss more when we have that dance you’ve so graciously promised me.” Another smile and he slipped from her grasp.

Dorian recalled the peculiar feeling of being lined up for a marriage beneficial to one’s family name. The sense of scriptedness, feeling more an actor on a stage than a thinking, feeling person with one’s own desires, thoughts, emotions.

He might feel pity for the girl were he not comparing her experience to his own. Far better to be asked to marry a fat and wealthy Orlesian than a woman who would likely see him poisoned once he’d gotten her with the child. Better to live out one’s days in Orlais than stripped of a mind capable of thought, a heart from which feeling had been hacked out. The plans laid out before Dorian’s feet had been a great deal uglier than those that stood before Xenia Laminus, and he had a hard time rousing anything resembling sympathy.

Speaking of. Cassius split from Dorian once they entered the vast dance hall, having spotted Aurelia in deep conversation with her First Enchanter and another relevant mage from her circle, her hands moving in tense, sharp gestures. Dorian cast his gaze across the room, which hummed with latent power: so many mages in such a small place, the smell of sweat and stale perfume already redolent in the air.

Across the space, Livia stood, her head bent near Laetitia’s. One, the woman who would have been his wife; the other, the woman whose support he needed to cleverly court. One whom he’d have given anything to _not_ court; the other, the target for all his charm and politicking this evening.

Well, Dorian was hardly going to walk straight into that pit of vipers. He would wait until his former fiancee turned her attentions elsewhere, and then he would approach Magister Cautens. Let Cassius take care of the first bit of politicking in his quest to see Aurelia elevated to the Magisterium. Dorian would observe at a distance and plan his attack accordingly.

He found his way to wine, a dry white that was pale, refined, and crisp, and slipped upstairs to the balcony overlooking the ballroom. The musicians below launched into a lively song and the young lady honoured by the evening had her first dance as others joined in around her, their bodies forming impossibly intricate patterns evident only from Dorian’s perch well above the crowd.

He tipped back his head, wine slipping down his throat. The upper levels were empty still, all of the night’s initial conflicts happening below – those that would set the tone for the evening. Livia and Laetitia still stood in conference in a corner, the rich drapes trailing down from the upper balcony pulled back to form a frame around them.

Dorian would rather wait to approach Laetitia until the first few dances had finished in any case. After the first set of the evening’s entertainment. He always preferred his politicking to come _after_ the lithe dancing boys. Nothing set him quite at ease like dancing boys.

“Dorian Pavus.” A low voice, rumbling as might the earth during a quake. “I’d heard you were in Minrathous, but I wondered if you might be frequenting different events these days. Setting slave markets ablaze, throwing eggs at the Senate, swaggering through the lowest and loosest neighbourhoods of the city.”

Dorian felt something bright and dangerous light up his body, as if he’d been struck by a fork of white lightning. He straightened and turned. “Gratian,” he said warmly, dipping his head and plastering his face with his most beautiful smile, all teeth and flirtation. “You don’t give me nearly enough credit. If I wished to see the city ablaze and well-egged, so it would be. I am a man of action, not of empty words and dull thoughts.”

Gratian looked exactly as he had when Dorian had last laid eyes on him, which had been at a dinner party held in honour of some ancient researcher at the Imperial University. Sloping shoulders, eyes so light a brown that they were nearly gray, an angular face better suited to looking suspicious and untrustworthy than anything resembling attractive or compelling. He’d grown a beard, a tidy one that was, to Dorian’s prickling frustration, perfectly groomed.

But then no one had ever said the man wasn’t precise. Just that he hadn’t an ounce of innovation in his entire body.

“Yes, a man of action.” Gratian walked to Dorian’s side, casting a glance to the ballroom below, where bodies were now spinning in another dance. Slower and better for whispered exchanges. “Although I hadn’t realized that lurking in the shadows was an action, per se.”

“You, of course, would be the expert when it comes to lurking in shadows and spitting helplessly at those in the light.”

A raised eyebrow. The thin man fixed Dorian with a pointed look. “Now, Dorian, we all know you’ve brought an elf with you whose natural inclination is for shadow. And other things deemed less acceptable by those _in the light_.”

Dorian felt fire smoulder beneath his ribs. His fingers tightened around his glass. Ah, yes, they were to this already.

“Tell me,” Gratian continued, “What other oddities did you acquire in the south? Clearly, a soft spot for the elvhen – this one makes, what, your second? I hear the Free Marches are lousy with them, the tattooed ones and the shabby ones in the cities and those belonging to the Imperium who’ve somehow managed to escape. Did you find others in the intervening years between leaving Minrathous and taming your Herald?”

Dorian stared at him. “How remarkably crude, Gratian. I’m amazed a mind so very fixed in its ways as yours could even conceptualize such a thing.”

“You’d be amazed at just what this _fixed mind_ can dream up, Dorian.”

Dorian felt his eyes narrow. “As you would be astounded, well and truly, by just how much my _dangerously innovative_ methods might accomplish. The world saved from complete destruction – and thanks in no small part to a man _too preoccupied with impressing those around him to be of worth_.” Words Gratian had thrown around years ago that had seen Dorian’s days at the University done. The University had been Dorian’s chance at redemption, at clawing his way back to a modicum of familial respectability, of impressing upon his parents that he was capable of great things.

Still, Gratian had ruined that. The string of failures – from Circle to Circle, from teacher to teacher – had grown too long for Dorian to bear, an endless litany of the myriad ways in which he was not enough, would never _be_ enough. That final, sickening rejection from the University had seen Dorian into his downward spiral of drink and debauchery. Had Alexius not found him and offered him a chance Dorian likely hadn’t deserved –

_Well, even that ended in a sort of failure_ , Dorian thought.

A dry laugh, the skin around Gratian’s eyes crinkling with mirth. “Are we still stuck on that? After all of these years? I can assure you that I’ve moved on.”

“Oh, as have I.” He turned, forcing his attention back to the ball below them. To fall too readily into an argument with Gratian was to admit the man more power over Dorian that he would allow. He cared _nothing_ for Gratian nor his vapid opinions. A thing best demonstrated rather than stated.

“I am curious, Dorian,” said Gratian after a long silence between them, “as to what your elf hopes to accomplish. He swims in dangerous waters. Surely you’ve warned him – or are you so preoccupied with Niteo’s ascent to power and the ensuing chaos he will see to fruition that it slipped your mind?”

Dorian cast him a sharp look. “You continually mistake him for _mine_. I’m no longer in my father’s household, Gratian, nor so devoid of decency as the rest of you. I don’t own slaves. I prefer to win companionship through charm and virtue than coin, as you must.  Speaking of, I’ve heard you recently remarried. Did she cost you your estate outside Qarinus or were you able to manage a deal because she came _slightly used_?”

Gratian’s mask slipped and Dorian felt a sharp pulse of pleasure, vicious and small. “You are exactly as I recall,” the man said. “More’s the pity: I’d hoped the intervening years might have gifted you some sense or an understanding of _moderation_. Alas. Let us pray that those around you do not pay for your quick and unthinking tongue.”

And, like that, the spectre of Dorian’s early years, the very root of his descent into despair as a younger man, disappeared back downstairs and into the whirl of bodies below.

Mind buzzing furiously, he took a deep breath and a deeper drink of wine. What had the man said precisely? Dorian would have it dissected, laid neatly out before him so that he might assure himself once and for all that a mind so very dull could have nothing to do with the deaths since his arrival in Minrathous.

He knew about Dorian’s companion. He knew that Talen looked to answer dangerous questions. Gratian insisted he was more than he’d been when last they’d fought with dry words and subtle barbs – that he was _capable_ of more.

So clearly dissected, Dorian realized with a faint surprise that he may indeed of cause for concern. Gratian would be worth watching, a man who held far too many cards and kept them too close to his chest. Much to Dorian’s bitter frustration.

It would be much more satisfying to tear Gratian down now, however. Seeing Cassius to victory would be the best way to inflict injury. Dorian would remove that which Gratian cared most about as Gratian had those many years ago. He would see the man’s life fall to pieces without the centre that held it together. Without the Magisterium under his sway, Gratian would be cast adrift.

He was not a man who could live without carefully-outlined scripts, Gratian, not like Dorian had been able to. The loss of the power he’d carefully amassed in the Senate would destroy him, and Dorian would see that done.

The thought of the end of Gratian’s pathetic career bright as gold in his mind, Dorian finished his wine and forced the frustrated furrow from his brow.

The evening still stood before him, full to the brim with conversations he needed to have, hearts to win, minds to inspire, votes to secure. And all while pointedly avoiding the woman he’d been intended to marry and the man whose small-mindedness had ushered him from his glory days at the Imperial University.

All that to accomplish and he yet had to be back home before the night grew too deep and dark, as he’d promised.

Well, he did enjoy a challenge. And he’d be damned if Gratian Ditas managed to throw him off his fine form. He was Dorian Pavus, after all, pariah extraordinate. If he couldn’t pull victory from the fire, no one could.

And he’d grown too used to victory of late to give himself to lost causes. He would see Cassius to power, no matter the cost.

That determination acted as a beacon, carrying him through the dark corridors of his mind as he chased the lingering traces of the conversation with Gratian away. He fetched a second glass of wine, which he finished in short order, and then took the plunge down into the centre of the party wherein schemes and alliances unfolded as readily as the petals of a flower seeking succor.

The evening took its shape: he wandered through the ballroom, pausing on occasion for a dance with women of import. All the while, he kept an eye on Gratian, the dull man slinking from corner to corner. Once, he stopped to speak with Livia and Laetitia, who still stood huddled together, observing the evening’s festivities from a distance. He spoke with Cassius as well, the two of them merrily carrying on as if they were not locked in opposition.

Magisters had no need for Orlesian masks when they might seem so very jovial whilst wishing each other complete and utter ruin.

Dorian swanned his way through the night, spinning out glittering tales to those who might be impressed with stories of the south. He even spoke at length about Fade rifts and veilfire runes with an enchanter from the Imperial University who had, she told him, insisted that each of her students read his paper.

“And you say the beacons summoned the dead?” parroted the ancient woman.

“Quite so. And yet it was decidedly not necromancy,” Dorian concluded, as the woman and her bevy of students broke into an eager, frantic discussion. He answered their questions as best he might, though he had little enough cause to try and impress this group – their sway was limited, even if their curiosity spoke to the best of Tevinter.

“Master Pavus, if I might whisk you away,” a voice behind him murmured. It might be lost in the buzz of the room, the trilling of hushed voices and sparkling conversation and the distant sounds of the musicians plucking away on their instruments, except for the purpose with which the syllables were shaped.

Dorian turned and found himself face-to-face with the woman whose support he so desperately needed to court.

Laetitia Cautens stood, her skin pale and matte even in the heat of the ballroom. Her light hair was twisted behind her in an austere knot, though small pearls were threaded through her hair and crowned her head in simple elegance. She’d draped herself in pale fabrics whose sheen told of their expense rather than any ornate decorations or ostentatious patterns.

Each element of the way in which she had presented herself echoed all that Dorian knew of the woman herself: she was moderate, reserved. Reasonable, even – though not without her own game or own ends.

“Magister Cautens, you have but to ask and I shall gladly follow,” Dorian said, clasping her chill hands briefly in his own.

He would begin in intimacy and see where that took him.

Her smile, slight and precise, remained fixed in place. “Please. I would have you call me Laetitia. Magister Cautens makes me feel like my mother,” she said, quietly slipping her hands from his and plucking a flute of champagne from a nearby slave as she led him away from the Imperial enchanter and toward a somewhat quieter recess of the ballroom. The champagne had been opened to much applause after the evening’s first set of entertainment and now it wended its way through the room on silver platters held delicately aloft by slaves whose heads remained bowed. As ever. Present but unseen.

“A fate we’d rather all avoid, yes,” said Dorian. The slave who’d passed by Laetitia hovered for a moment, proffering her tray. Dorian took one of the delicate glasses. “I, for one, _hate_ being mistaken for my mother. I’ve found the mustache helps immeasurably.”

Her lips quirked. “A clever stratagem, though one not available to all of us.”

“True enough,” Dorian said. “If I recall correctly, however, _your_ mother favoured piles and piles of jewels. I recollect seeing her once wearing so many precious stones that she could barely stand upright. Your restraint speaks volumes, Laetitia. A delicate touch is a rare thing indeed.”

Laetitia’s pale face remained impassive. “You flatter, Dorian.”

He would certainly _try_. “I but speak the truth! I spent enough time in the south to appreciate Imperial style when I see it: Ferelden was brutish, Orlais foppish, and that’s to say nothing of the Marches. To be returned to such finery! A genuine delight.”

“A delight for all of us. How excellent that Cassius was able to coax you back – and away from Skyhold and its attendant glories. I’m sure they were many.”

She drew to the point, deftly steering the conversation through benign waters while leading him to her end goal. “Are there any you wish to hear more of? I’ve yet to exhaust my stores of tales and would gladly see you entertained, Laetitia,” he murmured.

The woman’s smile grew a fraction broader before she let it settle back into its formerly trite shape. She was pleased. He’d done well. Dorian felt it inside of his chest, the small little fire that filled him to the brim with light.

These were patterns he excelled at making, these steps he knew intimately. This skillset one he’d rarely had cause to use in Skyhold. How remarkable to feel so… _competent_ again.

“Do tell, Dorian,” Laetitia began. “I’ve heard a _great_ many tales of your time in the south. I don’t expect you to regale me with all of them, but I’m _very_ curious about your involvement with the Qunari.”

A perfect opening. Dorian took a brief drink of the champagne and fixed Laetitia with his most charming smile. “If I were to attempt an exhaustive retelling, we would likely be here through to the end of the season – a fate neither of us wishes.”

“I should say not. Between the endless politicking and Xenia Laminus’s terror – however neatly hidden – the evening has proven itself to be rather unpleasant. Tell me, then, of the failed alliance with Par Vollen and the Inquisitor’s decisions on that front. I am most curious as to how his mind works.”

“In a way, our own countrymen were as much responsible for the failed alliance as the decisions the Inquisitor was forced to make,” Dorian began, launching into a neat retelling of the events that led to the sinking of the dreadnought.

Laetitia’s pale eyes remained fixed on him the entire time, head tilted. One hand sat on her hip, the other clasping the champagne flute between slender fingers. “Inquisitor Lavellan chose a mercenary group over Par Vollen? How curious,” she said once Dorian had rounded out the tale in appropriately dramatic fashion.

“He has preferred to rely upon those whom he can trust implicitly,” Dorian added. “The Inquisitor had only recently struck an alliance with the Archon. Rather correctly, he was unsure that a treaty with Par Vollen would hold while he worked alongside Tevinter – and thus the aid of the Chargers was more certain. Entirely certain, as it were.”

Laetitia glanced at Dorian and nodded her head toward the darkened recesses of the house, where the sumptuous curtains had fluttered shut.

She wanted to speak away from prying ears. A far better turn of events than he might have anticipated. His pulse picked up immediately. They had yet to begin their dance in truth; this had all been the tuning of the strings, the clearing out of the dancefloor.

Dorian inclined his head and together they slipped away from the press of bodies and toward the cool interior alcoves of the house. Laetitia parted the curtains that partitioned the grand ballroom from the impossibly rich library and stepped inside the dark sanctuary.

The room spiralled the span of several floors, staircases looping around themselves as they crawled their way up through small nooks meant for studying. Silver light spilled in through windows nearly as tall and grand as those in Skyhold, and equally intricate in design.

“Why Laetitia,” Dorian said, once they’d wandered past stacks of rare tomes, all neatly and perfectly shelved, “It’s not often that I find myself drawn into some dark recesses of a grand estate. Some might think we’re _scheming_.”

“Hardly scheming,” she said, moonlight turning the shadows of her face to a deepening blue. She turned, watching him carefully. “Although I will admit that I am intrigued as to how your Inquisitor handled Par Vollen. The Qunari are a topic I’ve had some cause to think on – as it seems unlikely that Magister Niteo will do so.”

Ah, there it was.

“An issue on which he has some flexibility, Laetitia. I assure you.” As vague and bland a reassurance as he might offer, one that asked her for further detail. One that ensured she still clasped the reins firmly in hand.

“Does he?” Her voice was low, but bright with curiosity, with an odd humour. “I should imagine, as he’s said nothing of his position at all. Am I to assume that your own views – the Inquisition’s views – form his own? A troubling notion. Lord Lavellan can act as he wishes. Entire nations separate him from Par Vollen. Tevinter is not so fortunate.”

Common ground, Josephine had often said, was the starting point of all negotiations. And Dorian realizes that they were now _negotiating_. The dance had begun. “Cassius appreciates the stability the Inquisition has brought to the south, but does not echo its views. But surely stability, peace, and prosperity are laudable goals we all share.”

“Worthy enough,” she said.

Still, his mind flashed to Gratian Ditas drawing near Laetitia, bending his head close to hers and speaking of – well, it might have been anything. But if Laetitia’s mind was so clearly fixed on Par Vollen, and Gratian so loudly in favour of retaking Sehereon, the likely shape of the conversation became clear.

He had to be careful. “There are those in the Magisterium who would see Tevinter at war again,” Dorian said. “With your support, however, we could usher that dynasty from the Senate and introduce meaningful measures – whether we’re speaking of Par Vollen or economics or the Inquisition.”

A short, sharp laugh, like a curl of barbed wire. “Oh, I think not, Master Pavus. Cassius Niteo wants many things, but a cautious Tevinter – one wherein we _think_ before we _act_ , where we act not for glory but for self-preservation – is not one of them. He’d hardly have brought _you_ if he wanted moderation, Dorian.”

Dorian stiffened, her words like a blow. Again, his mind rushed to Gratian. What had he said to turn her against him so quickly? To so neatly shutter Laetitia against Dorian’s offers of negotiation, of alliance.

Cassius had suggested a light touch, but Dorian had little choice in the matter. He straightened his shoulders and brought the conversation to a blunt head. “So you would rather see Gratian lead us to war? _Hardly_ moderate, Lady Cautens – not the hallmark of peace or prosperity.”

Her eyes flashed in the moonlight, pale and cold. “You mistake my mistrust of Cassius for trust in Gratian. If your magister sees it fit to articulate his proposal for how we ought to deal with Par Vollen and, more pressingly, Seheron, we may yet be able to come to an accord. But while his focus remains on _slavery_ , there is no discussion to be had – not unless he can point to how the two might be linked.”

But he was not done with Gratian yet. They could _not_ see Laetitia fall in with him. That would spell the end – of Cassius’s efforts and perhaps of Tevinter itself. “And what, pray tell, would you have him do about Par Vollen? Gratian favours reclaiming Seheron, which would provoke Par Vollen into further action – action that might be harder to turn aside. Movements on Minrathous itself, perhaps.”

“You needn’t convince me of how ill-conceived Gratian’s notions are, my dear,” she murmured, finger tapping against the side of her glass. “I’d hoped you might offer a more sensible reason for the Inquisitor’s rejection of a treaty. For a man who prizes _stability_ , it surprises me that I’ve heard so very little of _accord_.”

Did she refer to Talen or to Cassius? The problem was that she was conflating the two – a serious concern, and one that began to illuminate Yana’s pressing questions from earlier in the day.

“Cassius favours accord whenever possible,” Dorian said, heat prickling his throat. “I shall bring your concerns to him right away. Would you be amenable to a meeting?”

“I am amenable to concrete proposals. Articulate plans of action. A sensible political platform. We must address _pressing_ concerns rather than lofty ideals, and our nation stands toe-to-toe with a behemoth. That is where our focus ought to be, Dorian. That is certainly where my focus remains. To the north rather than the south.”

“Ah, but the south is so very charming and quaint,” Dorian tried. He would conclude this meeting on a note less – pointed. For a woman Cassius had thought opposed to blunt discussion, she was certainly clear in her own aims.

“Yes, we’ve all heard of the many ways in which it appealed to you.” She glanced away, toward the tall windows that sliced the evening’s moonlight into shards of light. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a young woman to congratulate on her pending marriage to an Orlesian. Be sure you make time to tell her how _charming_ that nation is when you’ve a chance. Good evening, Dorian.”

“Of course,” he murmured.

Handily outplayed. Dorian waited in the cool recesses, feeling heat hovering beneath the planes of his face. Cassius had left him entirely unprepared to deal with Laetitia. Surely, he’d known –

But no, he hadn’t, or else Cassius would have ensured Dorian went to play with more cards up his sleeve. Laetitia had emerged the victor of that little discussion. She knew precisely how badly Cassius needed her support, and she would see him direct his attention to whatever point caused her the most concern.

Cassius would need to bend his attention _away_ from his measures to address slavery and move instead _toward_ Par Vollen. It would entirely set him at odds with Gratian, but that wasn’t a concern.

No, it was, as Laetitia had rightly identified, the Inquisitor that they would need to be concerned about. But both Laetitia and Cassius believed him to be still in the south. His scorn would be distant.

It was a disapproval, a _disappointment_ , Dorian would need to bear the brunt of. If he knew that they redirected their attentions toward political alliances rather than addressing the evils of slavery –

Dorian shifted his weight, casting a glance out of the tall windows. Talen had made it perfectly clear what mattered to him: he risked his own life to unearth the puzzle of who’d been lying to escaped slaves. That he helped Dorian and Cassius was a secondary concern.

Of course Dorian knew that. He accepted it, even.

But that acceptance, that understanding, would not go both ways.

It was all he’d feared when his mind turned in its dark gyres that afternoon. All he’d feared when he had agreed – _foolishly_ – to allow the Inquisitor to accompany him to Minrathous. On this, they would not be aligned. On this, they could not be.

Dorian cleared his throat, frustration prickling at the back of his skull. It was easy for an outsider to think one could simply march in and fix Tevinter, but each and every step toward a _better_ Tevinter had to be weighed carefully. Traps lie hidden all along the path, which might simply turn ankles or which could hobble and scar. One magister demanded they do _this_ , while two others proclaimed that doing so would end only in a blood feud. _Address Par Vollen first_ , Laetitia insisted.

Talen would be furious.

But he had not come as the Inquisitor. Neither Talen nor Dorian were here on behalf of the Inquisition. And if they were, surely compromise was a thing the Inquisitor understood intimately. Certainly, should Tevinter go to war with Par Vollen, the ramifications would affect all of Thedas.

But Talen had come not as an actor upon this particular stage. His concerns in Minrathous were not those of the Inquisitor, but of the man he was. He fought for the good of his people, for justice and ideals. As Inquisitor, he might understand.

As Dorian’s lover, he would not.

In the end, where Dorian and Cassius focused their attentions was none of Talen’s concern. So long as they reached their goals in the end –

Well, the rest would follow. It had to, with or without the support of his lover. For the good of Tevinter, yes, for the good of _all_ of her peoples, but also for the good of the entire continent. Should Gratian succeed, the stability the Inquisition had struggled so hard to create might fall to shit in the span of time it took for a vote to hit the Senate floor.

Dorian drained the rest of his drink, loosing a long, rattling sigh as he peered at the titles around him. Moonlight caught gold leaf pressed into the spines of certain volumes. Others stood in the shadows, dark as ink. How he would love to whittle away the remaining hours here, ignoring the press of bodies, the stink of perfume, the laughter growing ever more raucous outside of the room.

And yet duty called.

He emerged into the ballroom again, eyes flickering over the scene before him. Shrill voices, sharp with giddy delight, tore through the thick air.

Aurelia pushed through the crowd to find Dorian’s side, her dark face turned upwards, eyes glittering. “There’s to be a duel,” she said. “They’re just setting the terms now.”

Dorian craned his neck to watch the center of the room, where two men stood in opposition, their bodies sharp lines angled toward each other. “I haven’t seen a duel in _ages_ ,” he breathed. “Who are they?”

“You’ll like this,” she said. Her halo of dark hair had been clasped with a simple gold band. She looked, every inch of her, a clever and beautiful young magister with years of potential before her – a future Cassius would secure. A future from which the nation would surely benefit. “It’s the Laminus’s second eldest son, Clarin, and one of the Emulari boys. Apparently, Xenia promised _her own hand_ to him, so when her parents announced her engagement to Lord Desmarais – not even a quarter of an hour ago – he issued an official challenge. But as Desmarais isn’t _here_ , Clarin must stand in his stead.”

Dorian’s eyebrows shot up. “The Emulari haven’t had any _real_ prestige for at least a century. How did he manage to win her? The Laminus fortune is a bright prize indeed, but surely the girl should have been more clever – ”

“How does anyone win anyone?” Aurelia asked with a loose shrug.

By offering what the other party needs, Dorian thought. By finding what it is that lies in their heart and moving toward that point. It worked as well in love as in politics. Sure enough, the young woman of the hour stood off to the side, her eyes ringed in red though her face was a picture of perfect composure. Only the tightness of her mouth, the corded tension of her neck, gave her away, as her eyes flicked now and again to the Emulari boy. A dark-haired youth, his hands clenched into fists at his side.

Did she want him to succeed? Should her would-be suitor emerge victorious, she would come into possession of the estate now destined for this brother, and she wouldn’t be sent to wed a fat and wealthy lord in Orlais. However, if her brother succeeded and her suitor perished, she would seem all the more desirable. She might use that platform to form a more ideal match, or as something to hold over her new husband.

It was possible she but acted in a way that was true to her heart but –

They were in Tevinter. Everything was a series of moves in a game as dangerous as it was intricate.

Dorian scanned the crowd for Cassius. “How has your evening unfolded, my dear?” he asked Aurelia, peering through the sea of faces.

“Successful enough,” she said. “We spoke to those we needed to. I think I might have even been charming – you may yet begin to shape me, Dorian.”

He paused in his search to smile at her.

“Let us hope that all of our evenings are so successful,” Aurelia continued, reaching to press a hand to his elbow. The terms had been decided, the press of bodies shifting toward the front courtyard, where it would be fought. They moved as a shoal of fish, singular in their focus now that such horror and theatre was promised. “Do we have word yet from your friend?”

They allowed themselves to be pulled along with the crowd through the front doors of the hall. Dorian turned his head toward Aurealia, whose eyes were bright underneath brows tilted in concern.

Of course. While Dorian plotted and conversed, while he felt bitter about Talen’s inevitable _disappointment_ , Talen stood in the very heart of the scheme, knee-deep in its incipient dangers. Something twisted in his heart: how easily he forgot when mired in the particular mess here. How readily his mind turned to other things – Par Vollen, Laetitia Cautens, old wounds, new drama – when he ought to be as concerned as the woman at his side.

The two men drew to the center of the courtyard, spectral figures illuminated by the flickering light spilling from the braziers arrayed around the space. A wide ring formed around them, men and women settling themselves at a safe distance – near low stone walls or carefully-shaped flowering bushes. Xenia Laminus stood at her parents’ side on the wide stairs that led to Praeclarus Hall. Under the moonlight, she looked as if she’d been cut from ivory, her dark curls like ink against the white of her skin.

Still, her eyes flashed with interest.

One of the slaves emerged from the house with a selection of staves, from which both the Emulari boy and the Laminus son chose. At the edge of the courtyard, near the carriages, Dorian could make out Cassius, engaged in a light conversation with the eldest Laminus son, the young man who would inherit the Hall, and two youth from the Publicanum. Dorian had met them before – their names both started with M, but he could hardly remember anything beyond that. Cassius glanced up and met Dorian’s gaze from across the wide space. He gestured briefly, inviting Dorian to his side, before returning his attention to Nicon Laminus.

A man whose wealth lent him considerable power. A worthy ally, and one apparently disinterested in the duel before him – the one over his sister and involving his brother.

Dorian slipped around the edge of the crowd and found his way to Cassius’s side. The young man, pale-skinned as his sister with eyes that shone with the same cleverness, inclined his head as Dorian approached. “Master Pavus,” he said. “It is truly a pleasure. Cassius was only just telling me one of your stories – it can’t possibly be true. Did you truly take Suledin Keep with only the Inquisitor and two other allies?”

“One of them was Nevarran,” Dorian demured. “She could likely have taken the Keep by herself.”

“And you’ll recall Marcus and Maren,” Cassius said, gesturing toward the two dark-haired Laetans. Their features were in concordance, perfect mirrors to one another’s – the same upturned nose, the same rounded chin, the same small mouth.

“A pleasure,” murmured the woman, inclining her head. Her eyes were dark as ink, smudged with kohl. Her brother similarly dipped his head, though he said nothing – indeed, his eyes seemed to slide over Dorian, turning with distant interest on the duel.

Beyond the clusters of spectators, the air exploded with fire. Dorian glanced toward the light, before turning his attention again on the two men to his side. Two Laetans scrambling after power in the Publicanum were of little enough interest. It was Nicon who stood the greater prize. “It would be quite the victory were the Emulari name to be linked to yours,” he said.

“A victory enough for anyone,” said the man. “Though I would rather see us connected through common goals than marriage. Marriages fail. Shared beliefs unite forces far more surely.” With a knowing smile to Cassius as beyond them the crowd gasped. The air grew thick with the smell of smoke, the bite of magic like a burst of lemon on the tongue.

“As I’ve often said,” Cassius said smoothly. “It’s when we find common ground that genuine alliances are made. The marriage bed is often a _source_ of conflict rather than its resolution.”

“I should say,” Nicon huffed with a knowing laugh. “Now if we might plan on having dinner this week, Cassius, I should very much like to turn our attentions to the taxation of luxury goods. As you know, our family –” He continued to prattle on, Dorian redirecting his attention to the duel. He cared little enough about these measures, though they were the small steps Cassius used to build his alliances.

No, he would need to turn his thoughts to larger issues: Par Vollen and a treaty with the Qunari. And once Cassius directed his attention to that quarter, Dorian would be faced with just how _unhappy_ a marriage bed could be.

Clarin Laminus swung his stave down, slamming it against the stones beneath him, which split into jagged pieces. With a thrust of his arms, he brought the shards of stone into the air and flung them toward the Emulari boy, who waved a barrier into place just as they came crashing toward him. With a sidestep, the boy spun out of the wave, his barrier splintering into pieces –

Beneath his feet, a fire mine exploded, but already he’d warded himself –

He was outclassed, however cleverly he tried to counter Clarin’s movements. The Laminus family had spared no expense on training their children, and Clarin duelled as if a master of chess. On his face, a joyous, sharp grin, while all around him crackled the bright energy of the Fade.

The Emularis boy would die. Dorian looked again at Xenia, whose face remained a cool mask.

She knew it too. He couldn’t tell if she was pleased or devastated.

Matters of the heart were never simple in Tevinter. Dorian knew that well enough. There could be no space for love where politics were concerned. The order of one’s priorities had to be clear: first, the nation; next, its people as a collective; then, smaller groups of persons; finally, the individual.

Surely Talen understood that. Surely he would understand. Dorian had first to see the Magisterium shaped into a place wherein change could be possible before that change might take place. Before they could elevate the status of slaves, before they could rewrite the system, blot it out of existence, Cassius needed _votes_. If that required shifting his attention from slavery to treaty, so be it.

Dorian had to do what was necessary for the betterment of his nation. His eyes fixed again on Xenia, whose arms had crossed against her body in the chill night air. Whose face remained impassive.

One had to make choices based on what was necessary, and Dorian’s aims were far nobler than the aims of a simple girl angling for a better marriage. Cassius’s aims were nobler.

First, the nation. Everything else followed.

How he hated to feel so absolutely wretched for doing as he’d come here to do. How he hated feeling so very _disappointing_. Dorian had disappointed enough people in his life. This was not a burden he wished to shoulder, not when he was succeeding. Not when he was doing as he ought to. Not when his heart was fixed steadily in a direction that would see Tevinter redeemed.

Just then, the clatter of hoofbeats across stone cut through the crackling of fire and magic in the courtyard. Dorian pivoted. A rider astride a dark horse, its sides heaving, leapt down and emerged from the shadow of one of the parked carriages.

Esidor, the merchant prince’s son. Dorian felt the back of his neck stiffen. Nicon and Cassius turned too, as did the Casses twins.

As a member of the host family, it fell to Nicon to greet the new arrival, whose face shone with sweat, who stood washed of colour in the dark.

“Welcome to Praeclarus Hall,” said Nicon, stepping forward. “We thank you for coming to celebrate my sister Xenia and –”

“I have no time for you,” snapped the Antivan, waving aside the proffered hand. “Dorian, you must come.” In an instant, his dark stare had fixed on Dorian, his features drawn.

“I must, must I?” snapped Dorian. “I shall do no such thing.”

He hadn’t forgotten how the man had chased after Talen, his _blade in the dark_. The Antivan had absolutely _no_ tact, not a polite bone in his body, and if he thought he could barge into an event like this one, without an invitation, if he hoped to _intervene_ and undermine the work that Dorian and Cassius were doing this night –

“It’s Lord Sabrae,” said the man. “We have him back at the Dragon’s Heart, but he has been gravely injured. Petra called for a healer but –”

A numb ringing in his ears. It didn’t make sense. Lord Sabrae, injured. Lord Sabrae –

It had to be someone else. Not Talen. Not _his_ –

The earth plummeted from beneath Dorian’s feet, pounding the air from him. The echo of each word a jabbing blow to his ribs, splintering bone, tearing his heart.

_Lord Sabrae_ , the man said. _Gravely injured_.

“Dorian,” Cassius began.

He hadn’t the time. Immediately, Dorian moved forward to the Antivan’s side. “Is he –”

“He lives yet,” said Esidor, face cut from silver and shadow. “Take the horse. I’ll find another way back. I rode as quickly as I might. I knew the guards would let me past, that I could find you and tell you –”

From behind him, the muffled sound of Cassius’s words as he spoke to Esidor, plying him with further questions. Then, as clear and bright as the lightning arcing through the courtyard behind him, a familiar, low voice. “Leaving so soon, Master Pavus? The night’s only just begun.”

Dorian turned. Gratian Ditas had drawn to Nicon’s side, their host looking absolutely befuddled. Gratian stood, eyes narrow, arms crossed, his pale eyes flashing in the moonlight.

All at once, his words came rushing back. _Let us pray that those around you do not pay for your quick and unthinking tongue_.

If he had but a moment to spare, Dorian would kill him. Rip him limb from limb until he was nothing but a pile of broken bones and viscera. That beast of a man – he _knew_. _He knew_.

But he barely had time to breathe. In an instant, Dorian had swung onto the horse and kicked it hard into flight.

He had miles to bridge between the Hall and the city. Miles and miles, and all the while shadows blotted out his thoughts and his heart hammered frantically, desperately. _Don’t let him die. Don’t let him be hurt. Not for me, not here_.

The night overhead stretched black and endless, except for the cold light of the moon. Impassive, distant.

_Please_ , Dorian thought.

Except wishes counted for nought. He had only a frantic prayer and wild desperation. He had only the cold night and the pounding of blood against his eardrums, and the furious, endless insistence that whoever was responsible would pay.

He would see his lover live, and then he would rip the Magisterium apart.

*

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been awhile since the last chapter! And, okay, so I know I don't have any obligations to keep to a schedule, blah blah blah, but I've been feeling a bit bad about not getting you this chapter sooner. That being said, in the intervening weeks since Chapter 5, I have written, edited, and finished a 33k fic for Dragon Age Big Bang ("Time Like the Beasts" which will be out on May 27th) and _bought a house_. Very exciting grown-up developments on this front! I've also written a few little tidbits on Tumblr that expand upon Talen's backstory, which you can find [here](http://mstigergun.tumblr.com/post/116823367228/inquisitor-question-meme) (the Inquisitor Question meme) and [here](http://mstigergun.tumblr.com/post/117855011193/hi-i-wonder-if-its-presumptuous-of-me-to-ask-you) (the gory details of how Dorian and Talen ended up together). So if you find yourself curious as to what the heck I get up to when not working on "Within Their Hearts," I guess that'd be it -- having feelings about Talen Lavellan, writing other things because of a deadline, and apparently making real estate purchases. Aaahh!
> 
> I owe a serious debt of gratitude to my beta, [spycaptain](http://spycaptain.tumblr.com), who has helped me tame the plot of this story in a significant way in addition to providing incredibly important emotional support, insightful writing advice, and a friendship that means a whole lot to me. I'm a very lucky writer, friends -- I am surrounded by incredibly talented and generous people. I'm also so fortunate to have such wonderful and engaged readers. So thanks for everything!
> 
> As always, fill me in on your reactions! [My ask box on Tumblr is perpetually open for any and all questions and I giddily welcome new followers.](http://mstigergun.tumblr.com) No, seriously. Come talk to me. The more, the merrier!
> 
> (Oh, and I suppose this would be when I'd apologize for the cliffhanger? "Apologize," she says, like she doesn't delight in causing suffering.)


	7. By Violence Destroyed

**Chapter 7: By Violence Destroyed**

Those who had sought to claim  
Heaven by violence destroyed it. What was  
Golden and pure turned black.  
Those who had once been mage-lords,  
The brightest of their age,  
Were no longer men, but monsters  
_Threnodies 12:1_

*

“I wouldn’t mind trading champagne in for blood. Not tonight,” Dorian said as Talen tugged on his sun-warmed gauntlets. The muscles of his shoulders, which had been set in tension for the entire afternoon, were as supple as the well-oiled leathers he’d strapped across his chest to protect himself should the evening go awry.

Talen paused, fingers hesitating over the buckles.

Dorian continued as he rolled free of bed. “I’ll likely be unable to extricate myself until all house of the night, though I’d much rather be here with you – and hear of your evening’s discoveries.”

 _Your evening’s discoveries_. Such a small way to put the task that lay before him, one he readily accepted – but on whose behalf? For Niteo, he supposed. For the man whose cruelties seemed, at the end of that very unpleasant afternoon, entirely self-serving.

It was so very incongruous that Talen felt for all the world as if he were cutting through thick woods without stars or a compass to guide him. On the one hand, what Talen knew and loved about Dorian: his intellect, his compassion, his idealism, the _goodness_ of his heart. Those traits stood in tension with the circles through which Dorian saw fit to move, the social and political spheres he believed would _better_ Tevinter.

None of it made sense.

All the warmth of the afternoon drained away, leaving Talen chilled. And to think that it was through those waters that Dorian would be again treading tonight, all while Talen moved toward the heart of the matter. Loosed like an arrow, true to purpose.

Dorian might do better if he came up for air. He might see more clearly if he broke free of the undertow that was this nation’s insidious politicking. Of that foul-minded man.

“If you’d like, _ma vhenan_ ,” Talen said, craning his neck so that he cast Dorian a knowing look, “I might command you to return at a reasonable hour. Seeing that you are the object of my love. As your magister so deftly put it.”

Dorian hands stilled for a moment, fingertips hovering just above the silken robe he’d drawn toward him.

More of the same, then: intimacy, then distance. Never too close – never as close as Talen wanted, _needed_ in his very heart.

Then, however, “I suppose that if I stayed any later, I might be forced to dance with the young lady in question. There are only so many ways one can demure without saying _no, I’d rather avoid having my toes stepped on, thank you very much_. I’ve seen both her parents dance; I would avoid a similar fate.”

It was a yes, in Dorian’s roundabout way.

Talen felt the smile break over his face like a sunrise. At once, the unsettled feeling fluttering inside his ribcage tucked its wings and rested. “Of course,” he said, skin humming, “now that you’ve said you’ll be back at a reasonable hour, I’ll be stuck slitting throats until the sun comes up.”

“Hardly,” Dorian said, eyes casting absently toward the window. “You’re a great deal more efficient than that.”

A bright enough note to depart on. Talen stole a kiss – quick, though his hand lingered against the heat of Dorian’s neck for a moment after he’d withdrawn – and then headed through the quiet hotel and out on to the streets, still golden with evening sun.

He walked close to the edge of the thoroughfare that led from this neighbourhood toward others, wending his way toward one of the smaller canals. A small market, just a handful of stands with bright canopies and dark-eyed purveyors, huddled near the largest of the canal’s locks. He drew up to one of the stalls, purchasing a handful of dates, two flat circles of a honeyed bread of which he was very fond, and a slice of chilled cheese. The young woman who stood behind her display smiled at him as always – a tentative, unsteady thing.

She was one of the few who would meet his eye when he was unaccompanied by Dorian. It was why he so often came by.

The woman turned to wrapping his supper in a thin square of cloth. Talen’s eyes skated the cluster of stalls and its customers idly, and then fell on a familiar head of hair. A gold collar laying heavily across a collarbone, dark curls knotted at the back of her skull. Nitela, chief among Niteo’s household servants.

 _Slaves_ , he corrected mentally.

He watched her as she hovered, demure and silent, at the edge of one of the stands. It was only all of his training that had him hold his tongue, that stopped his hands from shaking.

 _For you, I will remind them that they are servants in truth_ , Niteo had said. _That I pay them in guidance, in lodging, in finery, but that I do not own them_.

Yes, nothing said freedom quite like utter dependence in a country that offered no safe quarter to the disenfranchised.

 _A wretched man_ , Talen thought furiously. And a man whose hand liked to linger on Dorian’s shoulder, who colonized Dorian’s afternoons and evenings. Who left Talen so little time with his lover and, increasingly, so little in which they were allied.

And now Dorian was off to some grand party with Niteo, who’d seen it fit to humiliate Talen, to spout poison as readily as he breathed, while Talen tried to unearth the mystery that had spooled out so much death over the summer.

If he’d learned anything that afternoon, it was that Dorian’s goals were – laudable, perhaps, but not probable. The man he championed was not worthwhile; the Magisterium couldn’t handle a society in which those who’d been forced into slavery were freed. It was too fixed, those sitting atop the whole thing too desperate to cling to their power.

Talen might do his best to proffer aid, but his own goals were clear in his mind as the stars overhead that had so often helped him navigate dark and unknown woods. He would see whatever schemes he’d encountered undone. For the sake of those who needed his protections.

This time, he wouldn’t fail.

He collected his goods and left the market, unfolding the cotton and eating mindlessly while he walked. Minrathous laid itself out before him as he trailed down toward the harbour, sliding through the shadows and forgotten alleyways he’d had much cause to familiarize himself with these past weeks. The heat of the day had already broken and so main thoroughfares grew thick with travellers. Here, a bevy of slaves out to fetch fish caught the night before and packed on ice until the sun sank below the city walls. There, a small patrol of guards, the shifts at the city’s outposts changing when the day fell to twilight. As he drew deeper and deeper into Minrathous – what Talen thought of as the city _proper_ , its darknesses and its dusty neighbourhoods, its poorest streets where children scrambled eagerly around broken barrels and beneath dry downspouts – his heart grew easier.

Odd, that he should feel his breath coming a little more freely when his steps only took him nearer and nearer to danger.

 _This_ part of the city ran along paths he understood, mapped in lines he grasped as readily as he forded rivers. Here the overlay of politics drew back like a veil from a face. Free of the heavy occlusion that draped the entire upper city, Minrathous became –

Familiar, almost. Treacherous in its own way, but the dangers here were dangers Talen understood in his blood.

He’d had cause enough to understand blackmarket politics when he was far younger, in however small a way. And, certainly, standing at the helm of the Inquisition had lent him an even deeper knowledge. Far better that – secret sigils, coin for opiates, a hidden slave trade – than the Magisterium. Than Cassius Niteo and his ilk.

That the two realms were connected was a disquieting thought. It was made more infuriating by this: Niteo, wretched though he may be, had to be doing some sort of good. Those who’d set a chain of murders into effect, who’d lied to escaping slaves, wanted Niteo to fail, which meant that he had to be succeeding in some sense.

 _The enemy of my enemy is my friend_. Talen had heard it, but he couldn’t believe it. The thought of Niteo ascending to power when he held such vile views –

The Inquisitor would have understood. He’d put Gaspard – surely a putrid man if ever there was one – on the throne. Even with Briala standing at his shoulder, Gaspard had been a necessary evil, and one Talen had been willing to see committed for the sake of larger goods.

Now, though.

Well, Talen wasn’t here as Inquisitor. The divide felt as clear as night and day, never minding that dawn and twilight stretched endlessly between them. Niteo was succeeding in some ways; he had to be, to elicit this sort of attention.

That he might be the best Tevinter had to offer –

Of course not. Talen knew the error in the thought as soon as it curled its way through his mind, the lazy unspooling of an eddy across a placid bay threatened by storm. _Dorian_ was the best Tevinter had to offer –

And he’d left it.

Talen held the thought for a moment, felt its thorns catch at his skin. Insistent little barbs that wouldn’t let go. Dorian had left, and then he’d come back. And now Tevinter held his heart.

A sickness that infected his blood, this jealousy. To be envious of a nation, of a magister – foolish, Talen knew. And useless. Still, doubt sucked at the marrow of his bones, an inescapable pursuer. One that knew the paths of Talen’s mind as surely as Talen did himself. It was its own kind of intimacy, this doubt: his familiar friend.

He just wanted Dorian back. And if helping Niteo succeed meant wresting Dorian free from the Imperium as well, so be it. A price he might have to pay – but only so long as Talen could still do good work, _meaningful_ work. It rested in his heart gently: he could help Dorian identify the guilty party, then they would destroy whoever it was together and turn _homeward_ again.

He finished his last date, brushing the few remaining bread crumbs from his fingers. Funny that it was so often death and destruction that brought he and Dorian together. Talen spared half a thought to wonder how that particular penchant had shaped their relationship, but then he forcibly returned his attention to the evening before him.

Niteo _had_ managed to throw his focus into disarray. No longer. The lure of answers shone brighter still than the dark resentment of the magister and the shadow he cast over Talen’s relationship with Dorian.

He cut through one of the harbour neighbourhoods, slipping through the evening’s crowds unnoticed. Too many minds were turned toward bartering, toward gossip and chatter and flirtation, to take notice of a single elf who clung to shadows.

There was still time enough to get into place before the warehouse guards – the new hirelings, paid by whoever was in charge of the whole thing – settled into place. As he drew away from the crowded marketplace, which smelled of smoke and salt and stale beer, Talen traced his way a little more carefully.

He looped back behind the building in question, carefully hiding his route from any possible observers, though there were few enough.

He’d learned early on that, while everyone assumed people were watching, most were too consumed with their own lives to _notice_ anything of worth.

It was one of the first things Heir had made note of in his training. _You’re used to being unseen. Now that all eyes are upon you, you will need to work much harder. You must be the blade in the dark, emerging from the nothing that is the world beneath notice_.

In Minrathous, he’d intended to return to shadow, to again become someone not worth noticing. Though apparently he _had_ been noticed by association. It was equal parts frustrating and exhausting: being _seen_ made his work necessarily more difficult. And suggested that he’d perhaps underestimated the observation skills of Altus society, a misstep that still irked him.

He circled back again along a series of tangled alleyways, now growing accustomed to taking so many precautions as to have them become redundant. The walls were close, the route dark: these paths were meant for slaves so that they didn’t clog the thoroughfare when moving from their lodgings to the warehouses and canals where they were bent to task.

Those who wanted to be unseen would do well to follow in the footsteps of slaves, Talen thought idly as he approached his perch.

The building he’d scouted stretched toward the sky, abandoned and hollow. This area once held a cluster of hotels for travelling merchants and fishermen, but the quarter’s glory days were long since past. His haunt for the evening was a wreck, plaster walls flaked away when Talen sought handholds. He moved to an adjacent building and, using a tangled and withered vine, was able to pull himself up to a ledge near enough to the balcony in question to make the leap.

He’d grown fairly skilled at leaping from ledges to windowsills. Jumping to a balcony was practically a treat.

At the edge of the horizon, past the sharp masts prickling the sky and the sooty trails of smoke curling up from the marketplaces clustered along the harbour, the sun dipped toward the dark water. The perfect time to wait. Talen settled in a dark triangle of shadow as the sky overhead deepened into violet tones, and he watched and listened. His balcony stood across from the warehouse and at such an angle that he was able to see into the building itself, lanterns lit inside the large space and the hatches thrown open in preparation for the shipment that would arrive soon enough.

From his perch, Talen watched the warehouse workers leave in a weary trail, like reluctant cattle herded from the pasture. They took with them any valuables they might leave at the location during regular operations: heavier coats should the weather turn and a storm blow in from the ocean, the baubles that collected in intermediary places. Forgotten notes, lost pieces of shipments, curious little figures whittled while taking a rest from lugging crates.

He noticed these things because they aligned with what he’d suspected. The warehouse workers didn’t intend to be back for days and had new eyes with which to see their work spaces. The once-insignificant became valuable because, left unattended, it might disappear along with any traces of whatever or whomever had occupied the warehouse in the days that saw the workers banished.

“ _Saar-qamek_ ,” one of the workers spit as the man passed underneath the dark balcony where Talen waited. “ _Foul stuff_.”

“ _So long as coin keeps flowing, I don’t mind. It has been too long since I’ve seen to my wife properly. I would get her with another child – perhaps this time a little spitfire of a mage_.” The first worker’s companion, who had greasy hair and a large nose that had obviously been broken more than once, stopped long enough to spit into a gutter, and then they were gone.

Small things, but all of it fit. He had but to wait until further answers presented themselves.

The warehouse stood empty for a brief enough window. Soon, in twos and threes, dark-clad guards emerged from the dingy alleyways of the neighbourhood to coalesce around the building – like ants drawn to honeyed wine spilled on the ground. Several even passed beneath the balcony where Talen crouched.

But he was good at being unseen. He was comfortable in shadow. Even if they’d suspected there was someone watching the warehouse, they wouldn’t have found him – not while he waited in quiet stillness.

The guards grew more numerous and spelled out some sort of order with their bodies, forming sensible patrols that moved out from the warehouse in large, concentric rings.

They were being very cautious. One pair sent a few long-limbed youth away from the edge of the canal, though they were far enough away to pose no threat to the empty warehouse. When one of the kids hesitated, a guard drew a sword –

In a flash, the lanky group was gone.

They would understand enough of danger to know when a threat was real.

A frown creased Talen’s face. The guards weren’t playing around: they moved as if they had steel in their spines, with a stiffness that spoke of the importance of what they were doing. Of a latent anxiety.

There was no room for error, not tonight.

Anticipation hummed beneath Talen’s skin. This was important, whatever was happening, just as he’d expected. If he didn’t find his way to answers tonight, they would remain forever beyond his grasp. This was precisely what he’d been waiting for.

It wasn’t until the sky had fallen to a black expanse, pricked only by the occasional star, that the barges arrived. Someone else wouldn’t have been able to make out their arrival from this distance, or the specifics of their contents.

Thankfully, Talen had an elf’s eyesight. He watched as a seemingly endless number of crates were unloaded. Guards, armed to the teeth and plentiful enough to be called a _swarm_ , checked the edges of the warehouse and formed a perimeter. He watched all of this, looking for whatever small movement or  unthinking word might give him the key to his puzzle.

A distant flicker of movement caught his eyes. Three figures slipped from the darkness of the street below to the warehouse. As they materialized from the dark, the guards stiffened even more and ushered them to the warehouse without so much as a second glance.

Such easy entry after such a firm and unyielding patrol.

Important people, then. Recognizable immediately – so much so that they _had_ to be at the top of this vile little pyramid. Perhaps Breccan Casses or Septima Vulpera, the names Iro had dropped in his lap as those atop _Pluma_ and _Oriolus_ , the two reigning black market powers. Perhaps someone who might decode this mystery. There were too many guards for him to slip past, however; even if he did, with these numbers it was more likely than not that he’d never find a way out. Not alive.

They would occupy the warehouse for three nights; another opportunity would present itself. The three figures would emerge again. He could follow them then.

Still, he watched and he waited. He would know the truth of the matter and what he’d seen with Rilere. He wouldn’t undermine his efforts with unthinking haste, not when it was possible that there might be a shipment arriving that was not heavy with opiates but with slaves.

Sure enough, after the first two barges had been unloaded, another pulled up. The guards fanned  out further from the warehouse to ensure the secrecy with which their next cargo was unloaded.

Talen waited, breath faint. The air around him was cool, the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck rising. He’d suspected, but this – This could be confirmation.

A door built into the barge’s planking was lifted and the first few figures emerged. A trickle that became a stream of people: with heads bowed and hands fastened together, they began moving from barge to warehouse.

Very well. So slaves did play a part in this.

His heart hammered in his chest. There was no way he could handle these numbers on his own, but with a little help –

But who was there to help? No one. There wasn’t a warrior laying in wait, nor did he have his companions as he might if he’d set out on a mission from Skyhold. Talen was alone in this.

Perhaps that told him something. The thought hissed up at him from a distant corner of his mind, quiet and cool and insistent. Perhaps it would be wiser to simply wait for those three figures to emerge again. Perhaps it would be more sensible to focus on them.

 _Information is power_. He could practically hear Leliana, see her surrounded by her flock of ravens. He’d seen firsthand how notes scribbled on parchment might bring great men and women tumbling down. He knew that to determine who sat atop this entire scheme would grant him power.

No, would grant Niteo power. Would grant Niteo the Senate.

On the one hand, Niteo. On the other, the slaves he’d just seen led into the warehouse.

Talen couldn’t guarantee that these slaves would still be here once he’d chased down his leads. They might linger for only the span of the night, and then disappear into the occluding fog of the underworld.

He could taste the memory of blood, feel the weight of a boy’s head against his shoulder in the last warehouse. _A lie somewhere_ , the boy had said. And then Talen had done the same: promised safety, only to fail.

He couldn’t condemn these slaves to that fate. Not if it was for the sake of a man who thought them inherently _less worthy_. The vulnerable had to come first. They _had_ to be Talen’s focus, because they were an afterthought for everyone else.

The magister could wait.

He held on to his decision as firmly as he might something precious. It reminded him of who he was, of who he had become – of _why_ he had come to accept the mantle of Inquisitor, even though it came with more heartache than he’d imagined possible. And surely that was a thing Dorian would understand once Talen had explained that it came down to the slaves or his magister. Surely.

Perhaps if Talen returned to the Dragon’s Heart and _told_ Dorian, they might even once again be allied. Dorian had been one of the few at Skyhold who’d understood why Talen placed Briala behind Gaspard on the throne, why he acted to help his people in lasting ways when other paths may have been easier. Who understood in his bones what it meant to be made into _less than_. And Dorian would prioritize in the same way, surely. Always the vulnerable instead of the powerful. They could return together and tear the warehouse apart. Scorch the whole scheme to ash.

 _And if he doesn’t understand?_ The thought rasped across the surface of his mind, curling up from the black and ugly place in his heart. _What then?_

Then Talen would find his Inquisition contacts. He would pull whatever strings he could. If that meant shrugging of the mantle of anonymity, here, if if meant declaring his presence, so be it. Some things mattered more appeasing Dorian’s desire to see Niteo to power. The thirty souls he’d just watched being ushered into the warehouse _mattered more_ , and they were but the visible element of a much larger operation. One that lied and abused and killed. One that was poison, through and through.

Talen would see the oppressed liberated. This injustice could not be allowed to stand, not while he still drew breath. If he couldn’t offer this small group of people freedom, if he couldn’t do _this_ , everything else of import fell by the wayside.

He’d accepted his mantle to change the world for the better – and that began with fulfilling his promise to the dead.

Once the barge had left and the hatches were drawn firmly into place beneath the canal, Talen dropped off the edge of the balcony, his attention turned to the moon overhead. In a few hours, Dorian would be back to the hotel. Talen might linger a little longer by the warehouse, but he would need to head back soon to ensure they had time to make their way back down to the harbour to do what needed to be done. Because he _had_ to believe that Dorian would help; all he knew of his lover’s heart insisted that he would.

Talen watched from the shadows, taking note of the patterns the guards walked in their perimeter, the types of weapons they carried. Things he would share with Dorian so that they could form a plan of attack.

What he wouldn’t give to have Cassandra Pentaghast at his side – but, then, she’d be just as likely to declare the whole venture _entirely foolish and too dangerous by half_ and march him straight back to Skyhold.

The picture drew him from the darkness for a moment, a half-smile caught on his face. It would be good to see her again when they finally went home.

But there were aeons yet to go before that might be a reality.

Observations complete and the hour growing late, Talen turned and slipped through a narrow alleyway as dark as a starless night. Back to the highest peaks of Minrathous, then, so that he might gather force enough to return and bring the promise of blade and vengeance he’d sworn he would see to fruition – whether with Dorian by his side or under the banner of the Inquisition. Talen _would_ see success in this. His mind was already tracing the patterns they might take, navigating the conversation he’d have with Dorian, determining how precisely to infiltrate the warehouse and liberate the slaves, attention lost entirely to the future in all its dark complexities.

Behind him, a scuff sounded, like a boot finding purchase on the ground.

Talen stiffened then stilled, hand already on his dagger. Another sound behind him, and he turned, ready to loose a blade at the specter in question –

The cold burn of metal scraped the back of his neck. “ _You should not have come_.” A voice rasped against his skin, breath hot, as a hard hand grasped his arm and twisted it viciously behind his back. His dagger clattered to the ground as his assailant’s blade pressed hard against the bone beneath his skin. One swipe and he’d be slit open, so Talen fell perfectly still.

The man chuckled against the nape of his neck. “ _You must be an assassin to stay hidden for so long from us. A clever little savage, then_.” With a wrench of the hand that held Talen’s arm, so that Talen could nearly feel his muscle start to give. Another inch, and his shoulder would dislocate.

He didn’t have time to think about slipping away from the man’s grip on him, nor the blade at his neck, because once the words had left the man’s mouth another figure emerged from the darkness. She was clad in endless black from head-to-toe, swaddled in shadow as an infant might wear its mother’s cloak. The woman smiled, eyes dark, lips dark, face tattooed in hard, geometric shapes. Marked as an assassin from another of Tevinter’s prestigious assassin guilds. “ _Not nearly clever enough_.” Her eyes scraped against his face, reading his vallaslin like a slave mark. “ _And far too savage_.”

A third person emerged from the shadows, this one dressed as the guards – in prickling black armour, as though she walked clad in the void. Across her back, a stave. “ _I told you something was odd_ ,” said the mage. Her light hair was pulled into a severe knot on top of her head, light eyes flashing. “ _There’s a reason he told us to take extra precautions_.”

“And to take no prisoners,” murmured the man behind Talen, switching to the trade tongue to guarantee that Talen caught his meaning. His fingers dug hard against the bones of Talen’s wrist, the sharp edge of his blade still nipping at the base of Talen’s neck.

These weren’t the guards he’d watched approach the warehouse and set their patrols.

These were assassins who had likely been waiting in the shadows for nearly as long as Talen had – trained to ferret out anyone with more subtlety than the youth nosing around the edge of the canal earlier.

The man behind Talen slammed him down in the same moment he slashed his blade down to press hard against Talen’s side. “You know what will happen if you struggle, beast?” he said as he dug the tip hard into Talen’s flesh – not hard enough to break skin. Just enough to make his intention clear.

They waited in silence. Talen’s palms hurt, thrown down to catch himself on the hard ground. They’d scraped hard against jagged stones.

“Hm?” With another prod.

The man looked for an answer. Talen would supply one. It bought him more time. “You’ll run straight through my liver and kidneys. It will be wretched and I’ll die a very painful death.”

He said it like he wasn’t afraid, smoothed the edges of his words to a disinterested monotone. They couldn’t hear how his heart hammered; they didn’t know that each breath was like ground glass, jagged and panicked. He would keep it that way.

“Clever for a wild creature,” said the woman with the tattooed face. She stepped in closer. In her hands, a sword, the blade a line of silver in the moonlight.

The man reached and shoved Talen’s shoulder hard, so that he stayed hunched over. With a mean swipe, he pawed Talen’s hair out of the way to expose his neck. “See, you can die slow and ugly or quick and neat,” he breathed, leaning over to huff against the tip of Talen’s ear. “You choice, beast. If it was mine, we’d keep you alive – see just how much endurance you wild elves have.” Another jab with the knife.

Talen crouched in silence, though the breath that tore at his throat was edged in blood. The man had him, well and truly – he couldn’t escape the edge of that blade. The woman moved in closer still, drawing to Talen’s side with a vicious smile curving her dark-stained lips. She adjusted her stance, angling the long blade so that she might remove his head from his shoulders.

He knew that stance. He’d used it before after he’d sat in judgment in Skyhold.

“No last words?” Her teeth flashed in the dark. “Very well. Then you will fall to silence forever.”

With a pivot, she aimed and swung.

But he wasn’t going to die here. Talen shifted his weight and rolled into the blade. With a twist, it sliced hard against his ribs, scraping bone and parting flesh in a long, slick cut – but it didn’t penetrate.

The woman’s blade slammed into the ground as Talen surged up. His own hand jabbed the man’s wrist hard, the other assassin’s hands jerking loose. Talen yanked the bloodied dagger away, hurling it at the man.

Who dodged, slipping to shadow, even as the female assassin pivoted and the mage who walked with them drew her stave.

But Talen wouldn’t rest – he’d taken worse odds with more persistent wounds.

His fingers found the little throwing knives hidden beneath the buckles of his vambraces. They launched through the air toward the mage, a cluster of sharp edges to keep her focus on protecting herself rather than attacking him, while he flung another few toward the assassin who’d tried to remove his head from his body. He chased it with a small flask he kept tucked in his belt, one that exploded in a haze and filled the alleyway with an occluding smoke. It gave him enough time to scoop up his dropped blade and _flee_.

Talen launched himself through shadow to find a low ledge. He scrambled up to a higher perch, falling to perfect stillness as the three attackers below regained their senses.

All in the span of several breaths.

His hand sought out his side, which was hot and tacky with blood. The moment his fingers prodded the edge of the wound, pain spiked behind his eyelids – blindingly white, blotting out any trace of thought.

Talen forced his breath to smooth out, each jagged, suppressed gasp called prickling blackness up, hounding the edges of his thoughts and he needed to _think_.

He cast a look below. The fog had cleared and already the mage was hissing words under her breath as she moved her fingers in familiar shapes –

He had no time. Talen leapt to the ledge and threw himself toward another balcony, just as the one behind him burst into flame so bright and hot that he wondered, for a moment, if his skin had blistered.

He rolled as soon as he landed and felt a sick tearing – his skin, wound slipping wider at that twist of muscle.

Injuries could wait. The three people below couldn’t. Ledge after ledge, he scrambled upwards and over, feinting here and doubling back to confuse the assassins below.

Talen finally came to a halt, tucking himself behind a half-dead vine on a balcony six stories up from where he’d first been pushed to his knees. The night was dark, the air cold and blessedly still.

He willed his heart to stop hammering against his eardrums, to allow him the space to _listen_. His eyes flicked endlessly over the balconies and window frames studding the buildings that towered around him.

To his right, from the bare ledge of a window, a sheen. The fickle moonlight caught the edge of a dark shoulder guard as the man crawled _up_.

Talen would bring him crashing down soon enough.

He flicked a black throwing knife in the assassin’s direction, a hiss of pain escaping his lips as he twisted to pull the blade from his belt.

It was enough of a warning that the man was gone in a flurry of movement and breathy curses before the knife had time to find the back of his shoulder.

And now Talen had exposed his position – but it was a good one if he was facing a number of enemies. Talen held the high ground. There weren’t ledges above him to perch on. So long as he stayed here he could rebuff any approaches –

Except that balconies had never been _his_ primary way of moving unseen. He glanced up at the rooftops surrounding him, at all of the sharp edges that obscured shadows and forms, and knew he couldn’t stay there.

Given another chance, they’d find a way. Whether it was the mage blasting each possible alcove to pieces or one of the two assassins flashing from shadow to tear him limb from limb, this was not where he should be having this fight. He wasn’t Cassandra: Talen needed shadow to do his work, inattention and confusion. No matter how skilled he was, he couldn’t simply… _bash_ them into submission.

 _Too open_ , he thought – even this crowded and chill little alleyway.

He pressed himself back against the wall of the crumbling building, fingers clamped hard against the gash at his side. It throbbed, the clean edges of the cut far too eager to slide back and expose raw muscle beneath. He needed a moment to think, a place to deal with _this_ before he could deal with _them_ but –

A space to breathe. A place less open.

Higher ground, metaphorically speaking.

He was so used chasing after his enemies that he’d forgotten that he could decide on their playing field when he was being pursued. Talen wasn’t bound here by someone else’s dictates: these enemies weren’t at Adamant or an ancient temple or the broken, smoking ground of Haven. They chased _him_ , and would follow where he led.

The smallest sliver of a smile curved his lips, still unsteady as his head buzzed with pain, but an anchor nonetheless.

He slipped inside the deserted building, with its crumbling walls and broken stairs and chains of tiny rooms long since abandoned to squalor. The owners hadn’t bothered boarding up the doors this high up. Let his assailants find him, one-by-one, and he would see that they understood what befell those who thought him inconsequential.

The interior of the building was cool, its white walls pock-marked and flaking. The room he entered, barely more a jumble of broken furniture and the odd bits of refuse that collect in abandoned places, connected to a central corridor. The hallway was _central_ for only the briefest span before it broken into a seeming maze of mismatched and forgotten rooms.

Perfect.

He traced this level quickly and carefully, making sure he stepped lightly and left no trail that his pursuers could track.

Not that they’d be able to see in the dark building. They hadn’t his eyes.

The smirk returned, twisting his lips into a vicious shape. _Beast_ , they’d called him. These ugly henchmen who guarded those who would see his people destroyed. Exterminated.

He dropped down to the next level, pacing quickly so that he had time to learn the building’s secrets and to lay a few precautions. Once he’d ran the length of every level, each heartbeat spiking a hot and delirious pain through his side, Talen once again retreated to the top floor. There, he found a broken armoire near the stairwell, its dark wood splintered, its doors off their hinges, to hide behind. He stripped off one of his vambraces and tore strips of his shirt off with his teeth. He folded the thin fabric over several times, then jammed it hard against his side.

A lance of pain, bright as summer lightning. He hissed in a breath of the cold, stale air, vision swimming. The shadows around him elongated then shrunk, as if he’d been drinking too much and had set the world to spinning around him.

Talen’s eyes fluttered shut. He took another breath, one steady and slow. His throat was gummy, thick with dust and the distant taste of blood.

After a moment, the feeling drew back – the lifting of a film from over the world. He held the bandage in place with his elbow, unbuckling the belt that held his lockpicks and hitching it up over his wound.

His skin once again held together, Talen twisted a few times experimentally. Still, it ached with all the rawness of a new injury – but it would serve.

Time to address his other immediate concerns.

Outside, he could hear a distant conversation, though it was muffled by the walls, by the piles and piles of debris. He didn’t need to understand the words to understand their meaning – the sharp, prickly tones, the waspish exchange. They’d have realized by now that he had retreated to the building’s interior; how to proceed, however, was a bone of contention.

The smile returned. He leapt to the unsteady edge of the bannister, peering down the switchback staircase with its missing steps and impenetrable shadows.

Soon enough, they’d come to their decision and, given the expectations of their employer, it would be to come inside. It was, after all, what _he_ expected – whoever that mysterious _he_ was. Casses? Whoever held Vulpera’s leash? A collaborator? Simply the captain of their little force?

Their decision took less time than he’d anticipated. The voices outside fell into silence – a lull that was soon ended with the crackling of searing flames against the front door. The heavy footsteps of the mage followed in short succession.

 _Good_ , he thought. They’d have split up to ensure he didn’t escape. And the mage wasn’t the sort to scale balconies, not in the way assassins were accustomed to.

He slipped over the edge of the bannister and crept through shadow toward her.

Of course, they might use the mage as bait to lure him into a trap – but he’d cut the centre out of that plan before they could even get their pieces into play. Talen traced his way down the six levels. He skirted the debris he’d already scouted, carefully avoiding the splinters of wood he’d placed across the most obvious routes around shattered furniture and ancient piles of rubble.

In the lobby – if the square little hovel of a room could be called that, because whatever this building had been in its glory days, it certainly hadn’t been a hotel like Talen had come to know – the green pallor of a mage’s light flickered against true gloom.

The assassins wouldn’t have such luck. They’d move in darkness, without the dim moonlight outside to help illuminate the plush shadows of this building’s many recesses. Another advantage.

Footsteps edged toward the staircase, tentative. “ _Ah, yes, let’s split up_ ,” hissed the mage under her breath, taking another wary step forward. “ _An exemplar of wisdom. The best way to catch a beast unscathed is to stroll straight into his lair. Maker’s balls_.” Another step, and she entered Talen’s field of vision from his perch to the side of a sagging bed frame that was leaned vertically against the stairwell’s handrail. The mage’s eyes were wide, flicking over all the deep shadows of the place, the eerie reflections of tarnished metal and ancient lacquered wood.

She placed her foot on the first step of the staircase –

Above them, the sharp crack of wood splitting. Talen’s hand flew to his dagger as the woman jerked back, a plume of dust flaring up around her as she stumbled against a table laden with crumbling parchment.

After hearing that sound, the assassins would move toward him. He needed to remove one of the players now.

Talen braced himself against the railing and leapt down, landing neatly at the mage’s side as she still waved dust from the air around her.

He thrust the blade toward her, the edge darting against her throat.

With a jerk, she fell back, crashing hard against the table. It cracked beneath her and the light hanging between them flashed out.

Talen surged forward, living in the space between breaths. The silence of pursuit. Above them, footsteps hammered against the dusty floorboards.

The mage rolled away just as he neared her again, desperately scrambling to her feet and lurching back toward the blackened splinters of the door, a square of moonlight splitting the darkness open. Talen paused, throwing a quick look over his shoulder as footsteps continued their descent through the house. Clumsy – desperate, perhaps. But not nearly quick enough.

His pause gave the mage enough time to twist herself around, her back against the exterior wall of the decrepit building. Her fingers worked, the air in the dank little lobby growing thick with the smell of mildew, of long-forgotten spaces.

He knew that smell, even if he hadn’t recollected the shape of her hands or noticed that the tips of her fingers had begun to blacken. Her eyes were wide, darting, breath coming in frantic little gasps.

“I don’t think so,” he murmured. He pushed his way through the shadow that left him cloaked and snapped the curved edge of one blade toward her hands.

Again, she tried to jerk back, fingers caught mid-casting, but he’d anticipated it: with a side-step, he pivoted, other blade meeting her gut as she rolled right into its edge. A hard wrench of his arm, and he’d slit her open – kidney to intestine.

The mage gasped, which he silenced with a slice of his dagger.

She crumpled to the ground, the air heavy with the smell of the Fade and of viscera. Loops of intestines coiled out across the floor, ropey and bloodied across her limp thighs.

No time to linger. With the other assassins in the house, he might be able to make an escape. Talen moved to the door, but came up short.

A fire glyph, large and shining with a deadly and dark life, lay on the ground. And all of the entrances on the first few levels would be boarded tightly to prevent vandals from encroaching.

Talen pressed a thoughtless hand to his side again, the aching gash. No, that wouldn’t do – and what if he ran only to find one of them waiting outside? To sacrifice his advantage for a possible retreat. It wouldn’t do.

He withdrew again to shadow, edging past the splintered table on which the mage had landed and stepping neatly over her stave.

Whatever assassin had thought to leap to the mage’s defense caught on swiftly enough: the footsteps that had clumsily echoed through the empty building fell to silence. A ghost long since slipped back to the Fade.

Up the stairs would be no good. They knew he’d been in the lobby. Instead, Talen scaled a small pile of debris, edging over crumbling sheets of plaster, sharp lathes, the twisted remnants of metal filigree from a fireplace’s grate. The rubble held beneath his palms, even when he had to twist himself stiffly over the top and slide down to the other side.

The hallways stayed perfectly dark, windows long since sealed. Talen moved to the back of the house, a specter of silence –

Though one hounded by growing weariness. Even with his wound held tightly, he could feel the edges of his perception dulling, like a blade that had met stone far too often.

Perhaps he ought to risk it. Ought to try and run.  Perhaps –

But no. They would find him easy quarry, and if there were two assassins sent to look for trespassers in the area, there would be others. Like the ugly little beetles found in the slums near the harbour: you might see one, but that guaranteed a colony of hundreds.

He needed to dispatch these two. Once he threw them off his trail, he’d have enough time to be _careful_ in his retreat back to The Dragon’s Heart. Enough space to ensure he stayed safe.

Perhaps he’d even keep one alive, stashed away for when he might return.

 _He_ , they’d said. _There’s a reason he told us to take extra precautions_.

They knew something, and Talen would have that information.

He drew toward the narrow staircase he knew he’d find at the back of the house – a route for slaves, sent through the tiny rooms for whatever purpose their master had in mind. Because slaves weren’t only for the rich in Minrathous: when one could buy a person for a handful of coppers, some slave who’d been too sick to pawn off on Altus households, or who had some defect in mind or body – well.

Something hot flared inside of Talen’s chest, his mind immediately cast to the warehouse across the canal.

He began his way up the hidden staircase. Talen had made it nearly to the sixth level when he heard a creak through the wall – sound slipping readily through its chipped plaster, its exposed lathes like gaping ribs.

Talen stilled. Inching forward, he found a crack in the wall, its edges ragged and crumbling. He sank down, pressed his eye to the gap, one blade held in hand.

The male assassin perched behind the banister near the staircase, the black of his clothes not nearly dark enough to shield him from Talen’s perception.

Still, it was clumsy to make a sound like that, especially now that the man held himself so perfectly still.

A creased formed between Talen’s eyebrows. The man seemed – well, not unconcerned, but there was a looseness to his shoulders, a laxness to the line of his throat and the shape of his jaw, that seemed out of place. Incongruous.

So he waited, absolutely still, eye pressed to the dark recess in the wall. The minutes stretched on, the house silent as the grave.

Talen could wait forever, even with the hot throbbing of the wound in his side. Even with the ache of his shoulders from his scrambled flight away from danger.

He was a patient man, and he’d know why the assassin seemed so… settled. If he was to survive, he’d need to use every scrap of wit he had to offer, and his experience insisted that he _wait_.

No breeze moved in the cramped slave’s staircase, the air dusty and thick. The blood on Talen’s hands began to dry, darkening his knuckles as it cracked and flaked. Still he waited.

Finally, the man licked his lips. His eyes darted to the exposed banister above him and he shifted his weight again, a deliberate movement.

Another groan ripped through the quiet.

Talen flicked his attention to the dark stairwell above the man, where the assassin had clearly directed his attention before once again trying to beckon Talen out from hiding. They knew he couldn’t leave: they had their mage set the glyph and they’d seen that the other balconies were boarded. His only way out was through the top levels, which they had set to guarding. Still, no one stood in the darkness to which the man had directed his gaze.

Talen’s eyes narrowed. A small plume of dust sifted down from the very corner.

Once he’d noticed that, the glamour sloughed off like water from oiled leathers. There stood the other assailant, cloaked by a flask Talen had often had cause to use.

As clever a tactic as they might devise with so little time. They’d used his scuffle with the mage to find an ideal hunting ground and to position themselves. The sound of footsteps had been another misdirection –

But one not nearly clever enough.

He rolled back onto his heels, away from the gap in the plaster. In silence, Talen stood. He bit back the low and unsettled groan that threatened to tear from his throat as the slick edges of his cut slid under their haphazard bandage, unfixing the blood that had begun coagulating.

For an instant, all he could smell was the hot and sickly sweet smell of blood – his own, not the flaking viscera on his knuckles or the edge of his blades. Panic spiked inside of his heart. What if the assassins could –

In an instant, it was gone.

All in his head, Talen thought. One hand checked the torn fabric at his side. Sodden, tacky with hot blood. His fingers came away dark.

His window of competence was shrinking. He had to deal with these two now.

Talen edged up the stairs. Though the rest of the house was strewn with debris, this staircase was entirely free. Dusty and stale, yes, but it hadn’t seen the abuses that the rest of the building had endured.

Most likely, the looters and vandals – because of course there had been both, despite the owner’s perfunctory precautions – hadn’t known it was here. Slaves so often moved unseen that their passage was forgotten the moment they slipped from sight. Furniture more than people.

Talen reached the door to the top floor and eased it outward with gentle fingers.

Any noise, and he’d give the game away.

The door came to a stop after a hand’s span, resisting his wary touch. Rubble, most likely. He couldn’t exit there.

He bent his head in the stifling dark, thinking. If he doubled back and opened the next one, he’d be forced to come out on the floor where the woman lay in shadow. A far greater chance she would catch on to him and that he’d end up in a vicious fight with the both of them –

But he had no other choice. Talen turned and retreated, finding his way to the other narrow door. Its wood was worn and left his fingers stained white with plaster dust. Again, he gently eased the door open, inch by terrifying inch.

One wrong move and he might be done.

One wrong move and he might never see Dorian again.

He swallowed, forcing the thought away. _There must be peace in the shadows_ , Heir had said. _Rage burns like the sun, and those who give way to its embrace throw off the mantle of darkness_.

And Talen needed the mantle of darkness to succeed. _Please_ , Talen thought, though he thought it to no one in particular – no gods or spirits. Just fate, perhaps. _Please. Let this work_.

The door opened silently before him, pliant as a soft-hearted halla.

The hallway was one he’d committed to memory, its peculiar jumble of rubble, its half-broken wardrobes, the jut of lathes from walls like knives in the dark for those who were unaware. Carefully, he edged forward, side-stepping the obstacles he knew lay scattered on the ground.

Something – a glint, a sharp shadow – caught his eye, a break in the usual pattern of worn, weary floorboards. Talen paused, crouching.

Caltrops. She’d anticipated he might come this way and had scattered them here to catch him unaware.

Even better, then. She’d not imagine he could sneak up behind her without giving her some sort of notice with the careless kick of a spurred caltrop.

He doubled back and slid through a series of tiny, cluttered rooms to move in a wide circle around her. He worked his way to a doorway just behind the bannister where the woman crouched, eye on her companion. Talen lingered there for a moment, staring at the back of her neck.

 _There must be peace in shadows_. He blotted from mind the ache of his side, the half-formed panic at the thought of never again seeing Dorian. Only this: another kill, swift and tidy.

With that intent hovering before him, Talen eased forward, hand steady on his blade.

He flicked his wrist, brought his arm up and slammed the dagger toward her neck –

But at that precise moment, the woman rolled her shoulders, twisting to examine one of the dark doorways on the other side of the stairwell.

Talen’s blade ground to a halt against the flat plane of her shoulder blade, scraping bone and then skating off to the side.

Shit.

A shrill yelp cut the air, but the woman was good. Even as he pursued her with his other blade, she ducked and rolled, chasing hard after shadow as her partner surged up the stairs –

She might have been good. Talen was better.

His hands shot out and threw her off balance, as her already unsteady feet tripped over a pile of rubble. Talen threw himself at the woman, fingers grasping hard her tattooed cheekbones. He wrenched his hands –

A sick, wet pop. Ligaments tearing, and her eyes went empty.

No time for congratulations. Talen leapt up just as the man who’d so cleverly snuck up on him before hit the same level. His hand snapped out, flinging a spray of blades at Talen.

But Talen had the advantage. He scrambled back into the series of connected rooms, slipping through doorway after doorway.

There were no sounds behind him, silence except for the throbbing heartbeat in his ears, but he knew better than to think that his stalker had left him alone. He moved from room to room, quickly but steadily. There was a room with a boarded up balcony he might use to –

But he didn’t have time to form a plan. As Talen slid past a door with a cracked lintel and peeling paint, the panel slammed open, smashing against Talen’s shoulder.

He fell to the floor, rolled as the man came at him with a dagger.

Talen caught the man’s wrist, pushed hard against him, even as the man slammed him against the floor. Hard rubble bit into the small of Talen’s back, ground against the ache of his side. The man was all bared teeth, flashing eyes. “ _You beast_ ,” he snarled. The man twisted, angling to catch Talen on his bad side –

Rage lit the other assassin up like a beacon in the dark, each of the man’s moves clear as writing on a page.

Talen kicked out, caught the man’s knee with the heel of his boot. As the man hissed, Talen rolled, surged up and came at his assailant with a blade of his own.

But the man wouldn’t let up. He kept after Talen, thrusts of his knife hard and unyielding. Desperate, each backed with a furious snarl. Talen ducked, twisted, tried to slip beneath the blows –

One of the man’s blades caught his shoulder, slicing neatly through the leather and splitting a seam along Talen’s skin. A line of hot pain – an anchor that tethered him to where he was.

For each advantage Talen gave the man, he learned something else. A minor sacrifice. He dropped to a crouch, rolled and twisted, and sliced the man straight through his hamstring.

A feral yowl. The air tasted like blood and fury. At once, the assassin threw himself on Talen, blades flung aside, hands chasing after blood, desperate to break his body, bone from bone from wet socket –

Not good enough. The man’s arms were like bands of metal, clamping Talen down as they scrambled for advantage, but Talen, he was running water. He writhed and rolled and, with a hard kick of one foot, managed to throw the man off-balance.

The assassin fell hard against one of the lathes jutting from the wall, scraping the thin skin of his neck and spraying blood through the air.

It was enough of a distraction to pull the man’s thoughts away.

Talen’s blade found his throat in the span of a heartbeat, and he tore the man’s larynx from his throat in a grisly, pulpy mist.

The corpse sagged.

A sharp gasp broke free from Talen’s throat, something bloodied and battered. He pushed himself up, sheathing his daggers so that he could clamp a hand hard against his shoulder. The thick and wet feel of blood – too much, too much after everything else. His head spun, a black void hovering behind his eyelids. Buzzing there, like a swarm of hornets trapped inside his skull.

He had to get back to the hotel. He had to –

Even as his feet carried him back toward the stairwell, he stumbled. Fell against the wall, sucking in sharp breaths to try and clear the haze from his mind. But all he could taste was dust and blood and the allure of nothingness.

How badly he needed his companions to be here with him. But he was alone.

Talen ran his tongue across his teeth, eyes fluttering shut. He had to make it back. He had no choice.

He nearly tripped over the woman whose neck he’d broken. Still, Talen made his way down the broken stairs, wary of those that threatened to give way under careless feet – and his were certainly careless. The front entryway was out of the question, so he wound his way through the decrepit house to one of the third floor balconies. Sliding past splintered boards, he crept out onto the balcony. Talen slid over the edge and dropped down.

It wasn’t graceful, and the impact jarred him to his core. He strangled the yelp that tore from his throat.

His bones hurt. His mind failed to cooperate and force his body into order. Talen lingered for a moment, a heap of lead-heavy limbs. Flickering white pain demanded his attention, used him up to his core.

But no. He had to _go_.

With a furious shove, he pushed himself to a knee. Another, and he made it to his feet. The air was cold, damp. Something in it made his stomach roil. Smelled like a wet dog, like mouldering clothes, like something gone terribly foul. His palm _ached_ , as if a shard of metal had lodged itself beneath his skin, all while the taste of mildew lingered at the back of his throat.

He froze, bent over and sucking down breaths that gave him no respite.

Shit.

Talen’s gaze jerked up. At the end of the alleyway, a tall and lean figure with a sharp-tipped stave in his hands. From one of the side alleys, another figure emerged, this one brandishing a greatsword that gleamed like glass in the chill moonlight.

The mage slammed his stave down, raised one free hand, and four figures gutted to life. Sickly green and misshapen, specters Talen knew all too well. A sharp lance of pain through his palm, and Talen staggered.

Demons. Of course. He huffed a broken and bitter laugh, straightening.

He couldn’t have come to Tevinter without coming face-to-face with a collection of pet demons. Talen’s gaze darted over them: four, all simple enough to dispatch with under regular circumstances, but –

His body was already shutting down.

Still, he’d never go easily. If this was to be it, he would end this in a blaze of fury and violence, of _just vengeance_ –

And what they didn’t know was that he had an entirely different way of dealing with their demons. Even as the foul creatures started to slither toward him, as the mage raised his blackened hand to control them, Talen felt a surge of power in his palm.

He had enough left in him for that. He flung out his hand and tore a hole in the air above the alleyway. Ripped this damned city’s sky to pieces. Green light cut through the darkness, like a blade through flesh. At once, the demons shrieked, clawing at the air even as they were drawn inexorably to the tear in the sky.

Blackness hounded the edges of Talen’s vision. He fought it off, teeth gritted, slamming the rift shut as soon as the yowling creatures had been dragged back to the Fade.

He fell to the ground, hard beneath his knees and against his palm which ached like a torn muscle. At the end of the alley, a flurry of syllables that made no sense to him, not while his head buzzed with emptiness. Something panicked, eager.

Sharks out for blood.

He could run. He could –

Talen tried to push himself up, but he _couldn’t_. His hand splayed against the dirt beneath him, spattered with blood – his blood. The belt around his side had long since slipped off his gaping wound, and he dripped. Rained upon the dry ground.

He looked up again, the mage and warrior working their way toward him.

To his side, the sound of dirt under a boot. He twisted his head, dizzy, and saw a white-masked figure emerge from the shadows, a sword strapped across slender shoulders.

The porcelain snarl tugged at him, familiar though the tilt of the head was different. Curious or disbelieving. Either way, he didn’t care.

“You,” Talen hissed, because _of course_ it would be Rilere. He’d thought she was involved, thought _her master_ was involved, and he was right. He’d been _right_. Those slaves, they’d died because of her, and she’d come now to tie up her last loose end.

He found his way to his feet, though the ground rolled beneath him. He called a blade to his hand. Although his fingers grasped it weakly, it stayed fixed in his palm and ready to rend flesh.  He would _not_ go quietly. Never that.

“I told you this was not a safe place for you, pretty boy,” said the woman behind the mask, tone muffled. The woman who’d had a part in all of it. “I told you to leave.”

He tasted blood. His own. Heard only the hammering of his heartbeat against his eardrums, still steady despite all he’d put it through. This might be his end, but he would ensure it was an end worth having. “I couldn’t leave without finishing what I started,” he said, though the edges of his syllables were uneven. Shaped unsteadily by his mouth. All of him made clumsy.

A clumsy blade could still end a life.

Rilere drew her sword, a sharp sound through the air which was full, he realized belatedly, of barbed syllables. Fury.

He looked again at the mage and warrior, who had broken into a run toward him. The mage’s hands crackled with magic, the warrior aiming her blade directly at –

At Rilere.

“Well, then,” said the woman who stepped in front of Talen, who shielded him from their attackers, whose shoulders sat in a tight line, knuckles white around the hilt of her sword. “Let us finish it, Dalish.”

He pivoted, shook his head once to try and clear the haze from his mind, and then flung a dagger at the mage as Rilere’s sword clanged against the warrior’s. A surge of adrenaline, of battle fury, sang through him, lighting him on fire.

 _There must be peace in the shadows_ , Heir said – but peace could not sustain him.

Rage might light him up, but it could also keep his heart pounding.

He lunged at the mage, who’d called up a flickering barrier as soon as the knife had flown toward him. A weak, sickly thing – but, then, whatever strange magic made the air foul, whatever process he’d used to call demons forth from the Fade, would have severely depleted his mana.

Good. It would be over soon.

“ _Dalish_ ,” barked Rilere as Talen slashed at the stumbling mage with his other blade, as he ducked and picked up the one he’d already thrown at the man.

He half-turned his head, only to have his skull snapped forward as it was bashed with the pommel of a sword. He stumbled, the mage up again and hurling a blazing fireball at Rilere. The warrior whirled, smashing Talen’s attacker out of the way, barrelling toward the mage –

Talen hauled himself up, mind full of light and darkness, all of him muffled as if he sat on the bottom of the ocean. As if he was trapped in a world of lethargy.

He reeled for a moment, Rilere at his side. Steady, furious and snarling. She slashed hard at the mage, the warrior coming up behind them in an attempt at flanking as the mage called forth a small, flickering wall of fire.

Trapped.

He swallowed thickly, past the gummy residue of the abandoned hotel and its insidious plaster dust. The warrior thrust her blade toward him –

But he’d had enough.

Talen dropped down, so fast his head spun for a moment, and then he moved toward her. He would _gain_ ground, not give it up, not this time. “Finish the mage,” he snarled, edging closer and closer to the warrior, whose swings grew a little more wild.

She was panicked. She’d seen him open a rift; she _knew_ who he was.

A grin, wild and half-delirious, lit up his face. “I’ve killed far better warriors than you,” he spat, syllables thick with blood as he surged forward.

The warrior stumbled. Behind him, the heavy sound of a body hitting the ground.

But the woman wouldn’t go easily. He thrust a blade at her and it skated against the edge of her forearm. Enough to disarm her, but not stop her. She launched herself at him, swinging with fists laden with spiked armour.

Another blow, hard against his eye. Again, his head snapped back, the wet sound of bone cracking. His head spun, vision spotted as if the sun had fallen to darkness.

But he’d accepted that. As he stumbled backwards, his blade surged _up_ and caught her underneath her chin. The metal drove straight through the soft flesh, up through her skull.

She crumpled as Talen slammed back onto the ground. His mouth was thick with the taste of blood, vision clotted with darkness. All the darkness of the night, all the darkness of this city, all the –

Rilere crouched by his side, a darkening white mask above him. “We must _move_ ,” she hissed, hauling on his arm.

A yelp tore from his throat, jagged. His shoulder seared, a line of unrelenting agony, his side – Talen’s eyes slammed shut, and he sucked in a cold breath, long and unsteady. His fingers clenched at the air, at nothing, at –

“ _Stay awake_ ,” snarled the warrior. “I cannot carry you the entire way, not while I aim to remain unseen. And you – if you slip to darkness, Dalish, it will be the last thing you do. Stay.”

Another cruel pull, and she’d drawn him to his feet. Her arms held him upright, as steady and sure as mountains.

He sagged against her. Her skin smelled of sweat and blood and the harbour. Another push, and she saw him to his feet properly. She retrieved his blades, sheathed them on his behalf. “If we run into more trouble, I will need you. You are not entirely without use, even if you go looking into things that do not belong to you.”

 _Things that don’t belong to me_ , he thought.

No, they belonged to Niteo. For that man, he had nearly died.

Might yet still, judging from the delirious cant of his thoughts. The reckless gyre. Too much blood spilled across the ground, two sharp blows to the head.

She was right. If he fell to darkness, he might never be pulled from it again.

Talen tethered himself to the moment, to each furious and bright pain in his body. He had to _stay_. His arm, wrapped around her neck, tightened for a moment as he pulled himself even more upright.

All the while, Rilere urged him onwards, stumbling through the cool darkness of the interconnected alleyways.

If he died –

Dorian. He had to –

“I need to get back to The Dragon’s Heart,” he mumbled as Rilere forced him ever onwards, one steady arm tucked beneath his own. Half-carrying him, though she said she wouldn’t be able to.

Ahead of them, the sound of boots. She dragged him into a tiny alleyway and pushed him hard behind some boxes, tucking herself next to him. Voices buzzed as the guards walked past the corner, continuing on their way toward the canal.

When they faded to distant noise, she craned her head at him. “I know where you stay. And with whom. You keep questionable company, Dalish, for someone so very insistent that he make the world a better place.” A pause. “Come, they will soon find the bodies. We should be back to safer havens by then. To one of our safe houses –”

 _Questionable company_. Even with his mind reeling, he found himself bristling. “Dorian isn’t –”

Rilere pushed her mask back, forehead shining with sweat. “Your _magister_ , fool, not the peacock,” she spat. “I have known men like him, and have learned enough to understand that they are not to be trusted. You are injured. Let us move.” She jerked him out from their hiding place.

Talen hauled back, breaking away from her.

The movement unleashed a wave of blackness, surging up over his vision. His hands jerked out, caught the edge of one of the boxes. He sucked in a deep breath, gasping. “ _No_ ,” he said, once the world stopped spinning. “I need to go back. Dorian won’t know where I am –”

“You’re coming with me,” said the warrior.

“I’m _not_ ,” Talen snarled back. Panting, vision spotted.

Rilere stiffened. Her stare darkened, head tilting. Evaluating, gathering a new piece of information and making sense of it.

His blade was in his hand, glittering and gore-spattered edge pointing at directly at her. He hadn’t even realized.

The warrior took a step backwards, raising her hands. “You are a fool,” she said. “To put yourself in the way of so many enemies. We might keep you safe.”

“ _No_ ,” he said. Insisted.

 _We_. And who – _your magister_ , she’d said.

Niteo.

Talen’s chest rose and fell hard, like a horse that had been nearly ruined. He couldn’t think through this, couldn’t _work_ through it now, not when his mind threatened to pull him to blackness, not when he was a man strung together from pain and blood.

His fingers dug hard against the crates that kept him upright.

A long sigh and a roll of her eyes. “Very well, Dalish. _Falon_. We will take you to your hotel, and await your Dorian. I will not fret for your safety, nor will I be surprised when I hear of your death.” Rilere ducked in closer, drew him next to her again, and slowly, in fits and starts, they began their way back to the hotel. Through the dark city that had nearly swallowed him down.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A LONG NOTE, OKAY, because there is a lot of information for me to corral! This is what happens when I mull over a chapter for a really, really long time (whoops!).
> 
> *
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to [spycaptain](http://spycaptain.tumblr.com), who asked me if I could write Talen 'kicking ass.' With extra guts and gore. Sam, those ropey intestines are for you.
> 
> And special thanks to my lovely friend [enviouspride](http://enviouspride.tumblr.com) who hopped in as a last minute beta for this chapter. You're a treasure, Stacey!
> 
> In the very long time between the last chapter and this one, I've answered [a whole lot of questions about Talen on Tumblr](http://mstigergun.tumblr.com/tagged/oc-meme) (also, as a bonus, I've answered [quite a few about Cassius!](http://mstigergun.tumblr.com/post/122725974488/im-about-to-go-to-bed-but-like-pls-answer-for)). If you'd like to shoot me an ask, please do so -- my inbox is always open. You can also read through my answers if you're keen to know more about either Talen or Cassius. Also, hey, this is a good time to mention that you should consider being my friend on Tumblr. I will aggressively care about you and be your biggest cheerleader! [Come say hi!](http://mstigergun.tumblr.com)
> 
> Other fun things: [Cassius's tweets from Chapter 6](http://mstigergun.tumblr.com/post/120353456093/openthepocketwatch-mstigergun-so-one-night), [an incredible drawing of Talen](http://openthepocketwatch.tumblr.com/post/124269351394/hey-evelyn-mmm-hm-whered-you-get-the-idea) (both products of [openthepocketwatch's](http://openthepocketwatch.tumblr.com) brilliant mind and endless talents!), [some backstory for Iro](http://mstigergun.tumblr.com/post/123487363728/firstly-i-just-finished-reading-chapter-6-of-wth), and [a personality analysis of many of the major players from Within Their Hearts](http://mstigergun.tumblr.com/post/120269608028/openthepocketwatch-mstigergun-i-want-to-ask).
> 
> I've also started a companion piece called ["the great caged beast, an emptiness"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4369580), which started because Sam was very upset that I wasn't clear about the fate of our poor duelist from Chapter 6. It's a stand-alone, but will feature characters from Within Their Hearts and will hopefully serve to enrich the portrait of Tevinter society. Chapters will be posted alongside updates to Within Their Hearts.
> 
> (Also, a big shout-out to this 8tracks playlist, ["Unbreakable,"](http://mechanizations.tumblr.com/post/114978768472/unbreakable-a-playlist-for-the-inquisitioncant) which helped me write an action-packed chapter!)


	8. Empty Outstretched the Land

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 8: In which I don't leave you hanging on a cliff! Thank you for your patience, as always.

**Chapter 8: Empty Outstretched the Land**

_And before them, empty,_   
_Outstretched the land_   
_Which led to the gates of Minrathous._   
(Shartan 10:7, Dissonant Verse)

*

He clattered through the empty streets of Minrathous, the city cut from shadow and cold moonlight. Dorian’s heart fluttered – desperate, weak – against his ribs. Were his hands not white-knuckled around the reins, they would have been shaking. The horse rounded one corner, dashing down the empty streets, not nearly fast enough.

The entire journey had been slow, wretchedly slow, as though someone had cast an inverted haste spell. His mind raced, spelling out the dangers, replaying the Antivan’s words again and again – but his horse seemed to make no progress. Even with its sides lathered with sweat, even with the echo of staccato hoofbeats in his ear, nothing could compare to the desperate reeling of his thoughts. The insistence that this _not come to pass_.

Another corner, flashing past two guards whose eyes and mouths gaped wide with surprise. Figures materialized and faded behind him before he could really notice. The horse surged past the gates to the quarter, sides heaving –

If anything had happened –

This was foolish, the gravest error in Dorian’s life. To allow Talen to come with him to Tevinter, to allow him, _encourage_ him, to get involved –

The hotel emerged from the darkness, lights diffused through the gauzy curtains on the top floor. Dorian yanked on the horse’s mouth, made cruel with the panic hammering through his veins. He leapt from the horse, staggering for a moment on unsteady and weary legs – trembling with the cost of the tension that had burnt in his bones all the way back from Praeclarus Hall.

A woman stood in the doorway before him, arms folded tight across her narrow frame. In the dark, her eyes flashed bright as Talen’s under moonlight.

Dorian felt magic crackling through him. “Out of my way,” he spit.

The woman sniffed, looking him up and down. She stood steady in the doorframe. “The peacock,” she said. “Where is your magister?”

“I said _out of my way_ ,” he snarled. Maker help him, if he had to set the whole street on fire to burn a path to Talen’s side –

Her hands rose placatingly as she pivoted out of the way, Dorian flying past her. “I am merely doing what should be your duty: protecting him,” the elf called after him. Words that fell on deadened ears. He hadn’t time nor space for guilt, only for the desperation that lit his entire body up.

The lanterns in the back rooms were turned all the way up, casting sickly, dancing shadows across the space. Petra hovered at the bottom of the stairs, hands twisting before her. “Master Pavus,” she blurted as Dorian hurled himself toward the staircase.

“Where is he.” A statement, not a question.

“Upstairs. The healer has come and gone; Trio is –”

But Dorian didn’t linger to hear the rest. He took the stairs two at a time, thighs burning, heart hammering.

The door flew open in front of him, and he burst into the room.

Talen, wan, sat on the edge of the chaise in the front room. Hunched over, elbows planted on his knees, dried blood flaking his ribs, a jagged line across his shoulder, a red trail from his temple down one sharp cheek.

Dorian’s heart gave out. “Amatus,” he began.

Talen looked up, the skin around one eye purpled. Features drawn with pain and exhaustion. “ _Dorian_ ,” he breathed – quiet, ragged. An invocation half-shot through with disbelief, with reverence.

His feet carried him toward his lover, chest tight. Unable to breathe. “How sick I was with worry, to think – Amatus, to _see_ you is to breathe life into me again.” Hands reaching out, desperate to assure himself that, _yes_ , Talen was alive. He pushed his fingers through the tangle of Talen’s hair, matted with blood and dirt, felt his knees giving way. Dorian fell to the ground before him, hands clasping Talen’s frantically. So hard he worried, distantly, that he might be inflicting more pain upon him.

A shaky breath escaped Talen’s lips. He leaned forward, angling his body toward Dorian’s, and Dorian kissed him – a gentle, tentative thing. Scared, still. Talen tasted like blood, like the tang of magic, like everything familiar and precious that was very nearly stolen from him.

Another uneven breath escaped Talen’s lips, his hands tearing free of Dorian’s to thread themselves through Dorian’s hair. Desperation in the very tips of his fingers.

In one corner of the room, a sharp little sound, like something being dropped. “Apologies,” a hurried addition.

It was like a fork of lightning had shot through Dorian’s heart. He wrenched himself away, surging to his feet to stare wildly at the corner. One of the household slaves stood, an empty basin on the floor while a silver pitcher remained in one tight-knuckled hand.

The situation in which they’d just been found burnt itself into Dorian’s mind. The breathed endearments, the sweet and frantic embrace – hanging in the dead air of the room like the smell of blood, like the distant echo of magic, like metal and dust and that particular must that clung to Talen after he’d –

His heart twisted inside of his chest. _He didn’t_ , Dorian thought, a furious and desperate insistence that flared inside of his mind.

Dorian stared at the slave, with his wide-eyes, his dark hands hovering awkwardly in the air. “Get out,” Dorian said, low.

Still, the elf hesitated. His glance jumped to the basin at his feet, then back up again.

“Dorian,” began Talen. His voice was worn, cracked like dried parchment. As weary as Dorian had heard it since Corypheus had fallen.

He was safe, yes, but all at once the implications of the evening rushed to Dorian, like the deluge of a hurricane. If there’d been a healer, if another mage had been in this room, surely they would have felt the peculiar magic that clung to Talen. And there’d been the woman outside with a white mask pushed atop her hair, whose origin he didn’t know. And the slave –

If he didn’t know who Talen was _now_ , he still knew far too much. He’d have to be removed, have to –

The spiralling dangers loomed in Dorian’s mind. Wolves circling closer and closer, drawing terribly near to the _truth_. Dorian’s fingers were stiff at his sides, his chest heaving. He would – he needed a _plan_ , a means to somehow smuggle Talen from Tevinter, to force him back to safety, because the city had just revealed itself to be implicitly dangerous, insistently deadly.

A little sigh. “Come sit down, Trio,” Talen said, twisting his head to look at the slave, who stood awkwardly at the edge of the room.

“Of course, Your Worship,” murmured the slave, picking up the basin and edging past Dorian to settle gingerly on the chaise next to Talen.

Dorian could hardly breathe, each shallow breath an ache. He _knew_. The sense of danger buzzed, simmering beneath his skin.

He had to prioritize. Clearly, Talen was alright. Ensuring his safety for however long it would take to spirit him away from the capitol came next.

“The healer,” started Dorian.

“One of ours,” Talen said, as the slave wet a cloth and used it to wipe away the dried blood across his ribs – a process that revealed the cut to be long and slick, gummed with clotting blood. Talen’s lips tightened, a pained sound lodged in the cartilage of his throat. “It turns out that Leliana put Trio in place well before we arrived. In case things went bad. This was – a contingency plan.”

Dorian’s attention flickered to the slave, whose gaze skittered to meet his. He stiffened, fingers stilling against the curve of Talen’s shoulder. “Did you want –” with a wary offer of the bloodied cloth.

Did Dorian want to wash blood from his lover’s body?

Already, he felt flayed, skin and bone peeled back to reveal more than he’d known could be shown. Exposed by the – care with which the Nightingale had placed wards around Talen, even from the Sunburst Throne.

They were protections Dorian should have had in place. The woman out front had been correct in that.

Indeed, this never should have come to pass.

Which brought him around on point. “How did this happen?”

Dorian knew the answer before Talen even spoke: sent out on a mission for Cassius, for _Dorian_ , and Talen had nearly died. If Talen had already been treated by a healer and was this bent with pain and weariness, this pale, so very spent and haggard, the state he must have been in beforehand –

Talen tilted his head into Trio’s touch, as the slave – the _agent_ – daubed the cloth against the skin of his temple. “The protections in place around the warehouse were significant. Assassins – _good ones_ – and then mages who were using that same type of magic. I got pinned by a mage and two assassins. And then a mage and a guard outside after I’d dealt with the first group.” A thin hiss of pain escaped his lips as the agent again turned to the cut skating his ribs, pressing a little too firmly. “Still,” he ground out, “with protections that robust, surely the answers are there. More importantly, the number of slaves I saw getting pulled off a barge… People we can help. We should go –”

“You’re not going back.” As if it was an option. As if Dorian would _ever_ send him after answers again, when he’d had to fight off _five_ opponents, when he’d returned so near to broken that the sight of him made Dorian weak in the knees. Heartsick.

“I can’t afford _not_ to –”

Something Dorian could address shortly. The healer and Leliana’s agent were taken care of. His mind turned to other concerns. “And who was the woman outside? Does she know as well?”

Talen made a frustrated sound. “That’s – No, she doesn’t know. I don’t think so, in any case. She saved me. Brought me back here. If she’d known who I was, I think I would have been too big a prize for her proprietor to refuse. She’s actually the woman I worked with on that warehouse job.”

“The – I’m sorry, the slave of the ringleader of one of the largest black market drug cartels on the continent?” Dorian stared at him. “You _trust_ this woman?”

“She didn’t have to bring me back here. And I _would_ be dead if it weren’t for her aid.” A pause, as Trio tilted Talen’s head to work at the flaking blood matting his hair. “In any case, if she’s working against this same – scheme, then surely she’s an ally. She asked for nothing in return. Just saw me to safety.”

Tension, hot and raw, gathered in Dorian’s throat. _She asked for nothing in return_. His heart fluttered with disquiet against his ribs. He looked away, toward the curtains that barred them from the cold night beyond. Though he hadn’t meant it that way, Talen had voiced what Dorian recognized as clearly as the moon in the sky: all of this for _Dorian_. Once, Dorian had said he didn’t want to be indebted to Talen. That he didn’t want to be one of the people working their way closer to him so that he might use his power for their benefit.

And yet Dorian had fallen into that same wretched habit, and Talen had very nearly lost his life. He had been so desperate to see Cassius to power that he had exploited Talen’s generosity, his skills, for Dorian’s own aims.

It was unacceptable.

“This was a fool’s errand,” he said, voice low. Words hard to squeeze past the knot in his throat. “Clearly, we’ll send you back to Skyhold. Trio, you can step out. Contact Leliana –”

“ _Clearly?_ ” Talen repeated, tone sharpened with disbelief. He reached up and pushed the agent’s hand away. “You’re not to send her word until I can enclose a message of my own,” with a quick look at Trio, whose wide gaze was pinned on Talen. Perfectly focused. “Thank you for your help. We’ll speak alone now.”

Apparently, the Inquisitor’s tone held the conviction that Dorian’s had not. The agent stood up and quietly slipped from the room, like an animal scurrying to safety ahead of a forest fire.

Dorian still stood at a distance from the chaise, tense, Talen still a barely upright heap of limbs. Though the blood had been cleaned from his skin, the bruises beneath were harder to hide, the weariness dragging him _downward_ impossible to mask. Even as he tried to straighten for whatever this was – their next conflict.

One Dorian would not lose.

“You cannot possibly continue to insist that the risk to your life is minimal, or that your death would be without consequence.”

Talen’s eyebrows shot up, face still etched with pain. “And what of _you_ , Dorian? What of the lives of the slaves who are being crushed beneath your Imperium? The ones courageous enough to try to escape – who are then funneled into whatever scheme has its roots in the Senate?”

Yes, what of every sad story on the damned continent, let alone his nation. Dorian’s arms tucked themselves across his chest, tight. “Soft as your heart may be –”

“My heart isn’t _soft_ ,” he said, firm. Mouth turned down at its corners. “It’s never been soft.”

“Then surely you can acknowledge that your life is worth _more_. That what you can do as Inquisitor matters more than what you can do as an assassin in Minrathous. Only sentiment would prevent that, Talen.” Dorian finished plainly, with a jerky gesture of his hand to punctuate the point. A narrative Talen would be forced to acknowledge. Underhanded though it may be, Dorian would employ every trick at his disposal to see Talen agree to _leave_. To be _safe_.

“No.” Talen shook his head, a sharp gesture, gray eyes flashing – though still lined with a weariness that twisted Dorian’s heart, even in the midst of argument. “No, it’s not sentiment. Don’t try that on me – I am one and the same person. I didn’t stop being myself when I became Inquisitor.”

“No, you became _more_ ,” Dorian insisted, pivoting to face Talen more clearly. Squaring his shoulders, employing the tactic he’d seen Talen use again and again, though now Talen’s shoulders were a drooping line, one that spelled utter exhaustion.

It was not the time to have this conversation. Not when Dorian’s heart hurt quite like this, when he’d been so very near the precipice of utter destruction. Not when Talen could barely keep his head upright, eyes deeply shadowed, purpled with bruises that will take days to fade.

“In any case,” Dorian said, carefully smoothing his tone to make it placating, “you’re not going anywhere tonight. Surely that is a point on which we can agree. In this state, you’d be more likely to – fall into a scummy canal, and I don’t know if I could ever kiss you again.”

His words found their mark. Talen smiled – a weak shape, but one familiar enough to settle Dorian’s nerves, at least a little. “You wouldn’t be able to help yourself,” said Talen, voice ragged at its edges. “Certainly, you’d _complain_.”

“Certainly,” Dorian repeated, moving to Talen’s side once again. Thoughtlessly, he brushed Talen’s hair back from his forehead, palm resting for a moment against his temple.

Talen drew back, a sharp little jerk chased by a syllabant hiss of pain. “What’s – that,” he asked, soft. His eyes fell pointedly on the silver ring on Dorian’s hand. “It’s cold.”

At once, the band Cassius had given him felt like an icy weight, one dragging his hand downward. He felt, irrationally, like hiding it away behind his back at once – though of course that was foolish. He had nothing of which to be ashamed.

“Oh, this?” Dorian asked, holding it up. “Nothing: just a little something to fit in with the crowds at Praeclarus Hall. They expect finery! Anything less and my reputation might fall even _further_.”

The line of Talen’s jaw tensed, muscles working as his eyes flicked between Dorian’s expression and the ring. “It’s new,” he said.

“From – It was an _apology_ ,” Dorian began, moving away from Talen and toward the small table where a wrapped box still wait. “He got something for you as well, as –”

“By the _gods_ , Dorian,” Talen said, breathy. As though he’d caught a blow to his ribs. “I don’t _want_ a gift from him and – _He gave you a ring_.”

Heat prickled at the back of Dorian’s neck, sudden, as if he’d stepped right on a fire mine. “I don’t see what the fuss is about,” he said with a lightness he didn’t feel. “You’re clearly very tired, and –”

Talen scrubbed his hands, palms scraped red, against his forehead, the line of his back a curve. “We don’t share shemlen tradition,” he said, voice tight, “but I’m not stupid, Dorian. There are implications to rings, from Ferelden to Tevinter.”

Dorian’s mind buzzed, a dangerous numbness, a hollow pit in his stomach.“Surely, you can’t be labouring under the idea that you’ve anything to be jealous of. This is a conversation we’ve had: _I’m jealous_ , you said; _you needn’t be_ , I said. That should be the end of this. Particularly as this ring,” with a pointed gesture, one Talen ignored, “is but a mark of my political affiliation. Nothing more.”

“Political affiliation,” repeated Talen, tearing his hands away to shoot Dorian a haunted stare. “Then tell me, where is the ring that marks you an agent of the Inquisition?”

A ridiculous notion. Foolish, one that spoke of Talen’s utter ignorance on the intricacies of Tevinter politics. “We’re in the Imperium,” he said, sounding waspish to even his own ears. ”To even more openly declare myself in affiliation with the Inquisition would be to further complicate matters that are sufficiently complex. _Surely_ you agree that the very last thing we need at this juncture is additional complication.”

“And declaring your support for a magister won’t complicate things back home?” Talen’s eyes were wide, face etched with disbelief.

"I _am_ home.”

The words landed with the force of bolts from a crossbow, Talen jerking back, lips parted.

But they needn’t. It was a statement of fact, one Dorian felt in his very bones – in the marrow of his being. For all Talen insisted he wanted to return to Skyhold, he had always failed to grasp that Dorian was, for the first time in _years_ , in his homeland. That he was _here_ in the city that had given him some of the best memories of his life, that had schooled and raised him into the man he was today.

But how could someone who’d spent his whole life _wandering_ ever really grasp that? Dorian turned aside, looking pointedly at the dark recesses of the suite. Anywhere but that picture of hurt and disappointment, of grave injury to both body and heart.

At the door, a soft knock. Talen made a sharp sound, something deep in his chest. When Dorian looked back, he’d planted one hand firmly against the chaise and fixed his stare at an empty point on the wall. His fingers were stiff against the plush fabric.

It was just as well, Dorian thought. He wasn’t sure that this was a wound they should address. He walked across the room, fingers resting for one moment on the handle. An aching and insistent sickness hummed against his breastbone. He took one steadying breath, and opened the door.

“Master Pavus,” said Petra, whose dark eyes flashed with concern. “Enchanter Aurelia Livius is here to see you. I told her you were occupied, but she insisted I at least relay her arrival.”

Of course, Dorian thought. Aurelia had seen him go; she knew precisely who Talen was. She would have slipped away as soon as she could without drawing undue attention. He murmured his ascent and closed the door, hovering there as he waited for Aurelia.

“Do be civil,” he said without turning his head. “Aurelia’s guessed at who you are. She’ll be concerned.”

Silence. In the distance, he could hear footsteps winding their way up the stairs.

When Aurelia entered the room, her forehead creased, sweat a sheen against her temple, she gasped a ragged sound of relief. “Thank the Maker,” she cried, rushing to Talen’s side as Dorian shut the door. At once, she sat on the chaise next to him, clasping his hands in her own. “Your woman at the door almost didn’t let me in, but I told her that you were a dear friend, that Dorian would want a second opinion on your condition. There was – an exchange of rather grisly threats. I hope I haven’t offended.”

Dorian blinked at her. “ _Petra_ threatened you?”

“Oh, no. The elf with the sword.”

Talen huffed. “I told her she didn’t have to stay, but she insisted – at least until morning. And you don’t need to worry, Dorian,” with something like a smile, though it was a performance both of them could name as such, “she did say that she’d knock me out and tie me up if I tried to head out again.”

“What an unexpected delight,” he said. “To find someone with at least a modicum of sense, even if she’s a _barbarian_.”

“We savages do like to keep company with our own,” said Talen, his features perfectly blank. Silence followed, awkward – because of course that wasn’t a fair thing to say to Dorian. But then the night had been long enough and filled with far uglier arguments than Dorian might have ever imagined, and he didn’t have _this_ one in him. Not now.

Aurelia turned again on Talen. “You’ve seen a healer?”

“Yes,” Talen said, a bare syllable.

“Who? I would know who they are so that we can judge whether or not a second healer would be of assistance.”

Talen murmured a name unfamiliar to Dorian, and Aurelia’s face softened with relief. “Good. And what did she say?”

“That I was fortunate to be alive. That I should rest. That she would be back tomorrow.”

She hummed a sound in her throat. “And –” Aurelia stopped, a frown falling across her features. She glanced at Dorian. “She would have noticed. The feeling is overwhelming. You used your mark?”

Talen blinked wearily at her. “I hadn’t another choice. But the healer’s one of ours. We should still be fine.”

“It’s not just that,” she continued. “If you tore a hole in the Fade, others _will_ notice. Minrathous is a city filled with mages, and this is a unique magic. The way you _handle_ the Fade is… singular, like a signature. A sigil stamped upon the very fabric of the Fade. It will leave traces, and those traces will draw attention.”

Dorian moved closer. Of course she was right. “You should be safe for the moment, Inquisitor,” he said. “For those unfamiliar with the particular effects of your Mark, the _feel_ of it, it will merely be a curiosity for the moment. For those more _familiar_ –”

Talen’s shoulders straightened, neck stiff as he looked at Dorian. “There would be Venatori, wouldn’t there,” he murmured. “We weren’t able to kill them all, despite our best efforts.” His lips twisted into a hard line, eyes dark.

Good. If he could see the danger for himself –

It was as though he could read the thoughts in Dorian’s mind. “I can be careful, Dorian. This isn’t a reason to leave, not when there’s so much left to be done.”

Dorian’s gaze flicked to Aurelia, who had fallen silent, her hands still holding Talen’s. She perched close to him on the chaise, face a perfect picture of concern and compassion even as she looked pointedly away.

It was easy for her, of course. Far more complex for Dorian. Hers were short term concerns. Dorian had nothing _but_ the long term, nothing _but_ guarding Talen’s interests into the next decade, and, Maker permit it, beyond, because apparently the man would do no such thing himself.

Dorian opened his mouth to respond, to outline the precise ways in which staying was entirely _ridiculous_ , when another knock sounded on the door.

“Quite the evening,” he sighed, twisting and returning to the door.

Petra waited again outside. “My most sincere apologies,” she murmured, dipping her head. “But a letter has arrived –”

Dorian grabbed the proffered parchment from her, closing the door firmly and clasping the latch. The paper was heavy, sealed with a familiar sigil. He cracked it open, attention flicking over the familiar script.

_Dorian, I’ve managed to get the story from the Antivan. Does your assassin still live? I can come immediately; just send word, and I will be there for you. Yours, Cassius._

Heat prickled at the back of Dorian’s neck, the ring on his finger feeling, for a moment, like a brand. White hot and permanent, fused to very skin. He glanced up and caught Talen watching him.

_There are implications to rings_ , Talen had said. _Yours_ , Cassius signed.

Dorian’s stomach twisted in on itself, but he looked away, refusing to answer the question in Talen’s eyes. Instead, he moved to the writing desk and scribbled a quick response on the bottom of the letter, explaining that he would be by in the morning to discuss key business with Cassius.

Gratian required handling, and immediately. For Talen’s sake, for Cassius’s sake, for the sake of the Imperium.

Aurelia stood up as Dorian folded the paper again. “I’m headed to see Cassius,” she said. “The election approaches and we’ve numbers to tally. Shall I take that with me?”

Because of course she knew who the letter was from, just as Talen did.

But Dorian had come to the Imperium for a purpose. Despite Talen’s prejudices, he understood these waters. He grasped the dangers of these politics – and, even if Talen thought him to be careless, to be incorrect in his priorities, Dorian _would_ act in a way to see his lover to safety. To see the nation made _better_. Both of those things, Dorian would see done.

Even if doing so meant he would be on the receiving end of _that_ look.

“Thank you, darling,” he said, passing Aurelia the letter.

She nodded and moved to the door, pausing at the threshold. “I’ll come by tomorrow,” she said, looking past Dorian to Talen, her forehead still creased. If she wasn’t careful, she’d wrinkle, Dorian thought distantly. Then again, he felt as though he always wore the same damned look of concern. Talen had a way of bringing that out in those who cared about him. “Send a runner when Amarantha arrives,” she continued. “I’d speak with her about your health. And her silence.”

Talen huffed out a short, breathy laugh, one with edges still hounded by pain. “You’d try to ensure her silence? Even though she works for _us_ , and for more impressive parties still.”

Aurelia nodded, a short jerk of her chin. “I would. I can be very persuasive, Your Worship. And slightly more of an _immediate_ threat, should that be required. She’s seen the results of my studies and is clever enough to understand how awful such powers would be if bent toward cruel ends.” Then, with something like a bow, a movement equal parts graceful and unsure, she left and headed out into the dark night beyond.

Which left Dorian and Talen alone once again.

Dorian shifted in the narrow seat at the writing desk. Inside of his chest, his heart beat a sickly, unsteady rhythm. To experience so much in the course of one day: Talen, so singularly stubborn and wretchedly noble; his lover, who might have died. Who remained impossibly fixed on goals properly beyond his purview.

Talen braced his elbows against his knees once more, bent over and pale. Face drawn and weary. Eyes a liquid darkness, a haunted look Dorian hadn’t seen since –

Since before Adamant, he thought. That heartsick uncertainty.

At once, the feeling found him again, this moment a palimpsest of that one. How certain he’d been, when he’d tumbled from the Fade, that he wouldn’t see Talen again. How utterly broken he had been in that moment. And tonight – to be so proud of his lover, then so very sure of Talen’s disappointment in what Dorian had to do in order to see Cassius to power, and then trembling with a panic he had only felt that one other time, to fear the worst –

Dorian stood. “Talen,” he began. Then, “Amatus –”

Talen looked away, staring at the floor beneath his feet.

Dorian moved across the space and sat down on the chaise next to Talen, perched in the space that Aurelia had so easily occupied. He reached out, pressed his palm to the warm skin of Talen’s hand.

He could see the muscles of Talen’s jaw working, tense.

“I lack the words to describe what I felt when I heard you’d been injured,” Dorian said. His throat was dry, the immediacy of the panic ghosting the syllables. “Maker, how I had hoped to never again feel that way. Like Adamant, but worse, I’m afraid, because this was entirely my fault.”

Talen’s gaze skittered up, grazing Dorian’s. Dark, but soft as raven’s wings. “It’s not your fault, Dorian. I’m here because I _want_ to be.”

“And you _want_ to be because of my sense of duty, however – misplaced it may be.”

Talen turned his hand over, fingers tracing the lines of Dorian’s palm. Touching every scrap of skin, except that too near the silver ring. He looked at it, eyes pinned on the little serpent with its sharp little fangs that would, if touched, draw blood.

Dorian’s throat tightened, hot. He drew his hand away for a moment, twisting and pulling the ring free from his hand and setting it on the table by the chaise. “Better?” A murmur, nothing more. To speak it too loudly would be to invoke their fight, to summon an argument better left to memory.

Talen nodded, a tiny movement more suggestion than anything else. Then, fingers touching Dorian’s knuckles with a slow, gentle reverence Dorian did not deserve, “There were moments in which I was certain I would die, Dorian – and I could only think of you.”

His lover, fighting for his life, while Dorian bartered away the nobility of his cause. At the moment he’d been speaking with Laetitia and nursing an unjust bitterness, Talen had been bleeding out in the dark, desperately scrambling for survival. Fighting _five_ enemies, who’d wounded him severely enough to see him in _this_ state after healing.

His chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow breaths.

If he’d lost Talen –

“ _Ar lath ma, vhenan_ ,” breathed Talen, leaning in to press his cheek against the curve of Dorian’s shoulder. His fingers reached out, tangled themselves in the folds of Dorian’s robes – knuckles white, desperate.

Dorian raised a hand and brushed Talen’s hair behind one ear, palm lingering against the shape of his skull. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment.

“You may yet break me,” Dorian murmured against Talen’s temple.

Because he would: how he tore at Dorian, at his heart and his sense of loyalty. To place that against his need to see Tevinter better, to be caught between disappointing his selfless lover and failing to see the Imperium redeemed – truly, it was to be broken. Ruined before he might even take a step.

All while his heart beat black inside his chest, unsteady. Frail. A traitorous thing no matter which way he turned. They would concede key points, the ideas that made Cassius’s campaign even remotely palatable for Talen. He would, in that way, betray the person his lover believed him to be –

But Dorian had to somehow struggle to hold all of this in place. To be at once the man Talen needed him to be and the man his _nation_ required him to be. All while remaining an agent of the Inquisition who would guard his Inquisitor against all harm – even if it was Talen throwing himself into the embrace of danger.

For now, though, he had Talen: alive. Wounded and haunted, but still breathing.

Something he could cling to, until tomorrow at least.

At least until then.

*

Dorian arrived at the Niteo household late in the morning, after carefully extricating himself from Talen’s side with as much precision and thoughtfulness as he used when casting especially tricky spells. An errant word, a thoughtless expression, and he might find himself yet again with a lover made vulnerable. Bright and furious and wounded in the way wild animals could be.

They couldn’t speak any more of Cassius, Dorian had decided that much. He would attend to the matters Cassius needed to have managed and ensure Talen remained neatly on the outside. And with all the pieces pointing so summarily to Gratian, with the previous night’s threat and its terrifying fulfillment, unravelling the truth at the heart of Minrathous was –

Well, not precisely simple. Never that, never in Tevinter. But at least _possible_.

He hadn’t managed anything beyond a few moments of sleep, Talen heavy in the bed beside him, arm draped loosely around Dorian’s waist. He needed rest. Dorian couldn’t afford it. He had instead stared into the dark room around them, trying to fathom precisely how all of the pieces of this little scheme fit together. Now that they had the mind behind the machinations –

Thankfully, Dorian excelled at puzzles, even when he was so weary that he thought it likely he could sleep for a week. Finally, in the gray hours of dawn, he’d spun out a largely coherent explanation, one he tucked away in the darker recesses of his mind to share with Cassius when he headed there later in the day.

He allowed himself a few moments of sleep. To memorize the feeling of Talen folded up against his rib cage, the particular smell of his skin, the steady breathing that was the very heartbeat of Dorian’s life. A few hours of that precious and rare tranquility before he rose to set out again.

Of course Dorian spoke with Leliana’s agent before leaving the hotel. “Make sure he doesn’t leave,” Dorian had said, hand clasping the boy’s wrist.

The agent straightened, forehead creasing. “I’ll do what I can –”

“No. Understand: he is stubborn and foolish, and his worth to the world is greater than his ire will ever be.” Dorian’s fingers had dug in more firmly against Trio’s thin bones, and he leaned in closer. “He cannot be gone when I return. If you need to chain him to the bed or drug his tea, _so be it_. This is not a request – it is a command.”

Trio blinked once, a fluttering of his eyelids, then nodded. “Yes, Master Pavus. It will be done.”

Only with that assurance in place was Dorian able to leave the hotel. Once, Talen’s promise would have been enough. Now, Dorian had discovered he had a lover far more clever at deception than he’d imagined.

They were, he thought with a distant smile at the slave who ushered him into Niteo’s home, well matched. Dorian lied as readily as breathing; Talen placated and then did as his conscience demanded.

How very Tevinter.

Dorian accepted the slave’s offering of tea, wandering out to the back gardens as the woman scurried off to provide refreshment. Perched near the fountain rested Cassius’s wife, one hand laid on the swell of her stomach while the other flicked through the pages of a leather-bound tome.

She rolled her neck from side to side, a languid stretch, as her finger traced the words. “He’s not up yet,” she said distantly, eyes still pinned to the text before her.

Dorian moved forward, drawing to a short bench by her side. Cosmia’s dark hair was twisted behind her head into a casual knot, forehead creased with its perpetual line of thought. “It _was_ a late night,” he admitted.

“And he’s getting old,” she added, shooting Dorian a brief smile. Distracted.

He laughed, arms crossed. Overhead, the sky arced a pale and cloudless blue, framed by the ample leaves and fragrant flowers of the gardens. “Now, now, don’t let him hear you say that. The mere suggestion and his ego might demand he overcompensate. I, for one, prefer the meticulous and campaigning Cassius to the youthful spitfire who once challenged three magister’s sons to a duel. At once.”

Cosmia shook her head with a huffed breath. “Maker, but you are right. Though I dare say I wouldn’t have agreed to marry _that_ man. The peace required for study does become harder to maintain when one’s husband is rushing headlong into deadly fights.”

She was right. Indeed, Cosmia’s point came nearer the target than she would ever know. Peace, stability, the calm one hoped to cultivate within a marriage – if not love, as he’d so often been told, then at least _stability_ – did become impossible in the face of whatever it was that his own lover boasted. Whatever it was he shared with Cassius in his younger incarnation.

Stubbornness, Dorian supposed, and single-mindedness. However virtuous in origin, however noble in end.

A pause, during which a merry songbird chattered in the distance. Here, in Cassius’s gardens, it became almost possible to forget one was in the city itself. He had cultivated all the tranquility of a remote estate while maintaining the fineries that could only be found in Tevinter’s finest city, the crown jewel of the nation.

_Almost_ easy to forget, but not quite. Beyond these walls lay untold dangers, snares that had nearly snapped shut on Talen – which would see him destroyed before the end. Would see all that Dorian cared for, all he believed in, brought to ruin.

A dark potentiality even more likely than Dorian had imagined when first they’d made their way north, given Talen’s headlong tilt toward danger. His insistence that he wade into waters beyond his knowledge. It was tricky enough for Dorian and Cassius to navigate these seas; harder still for Talen, who believed he understood but chased after shadows and choking darkness.

Cosmia’s thumb traced the edge of a page thoughtlessly as she watched Dorian with a shrewd, dark gaze. “He may not be starting fights at dinner parties now,” she murmured, closing her book, though she kept her page with one finger. “But he does still _push_. Still he seems to embrace danger, and draw those around him toward it as readily as moths to a flame. Are you quite sure you prefer this to peace?”

How novel _peace_ seemed, he thought – but of course that was the end goal. It was not something that could exist without adequate sacrifice, however. Cosmia might rest in her gardens, reading her books and conducting her research, but hers was a life provided by the battles Cassius fought in the world beyond these walls. The illusion of this place was just that: _illusion_ , and it was one that took a great deal of effort to cast.

“I have it on good authority that you’ve heard enough of my adventures to understand that danger is not something from which I shy away,” Dorian offered, chasing it with a bright and charming smile that usually had the effect of turning Altus women to flustered messes, no matter their assumptions about his inclinations. “Danger doesn’t frighten me away: not in the south, and certainly not in my own nation. The treacheries of the Imperium are only outmatched by her ability to be _better_. We would both see that to completion.”

Cosmia continued watching him, thoroughly unflustered, though a soft little sound escaped her throat – like a scholar might make when stumbling across an intriguing bit of new information. Her gaze dropped to the silver ring on Dorian’s hand. “You’re well matched,” she offered. “I’ll fetch him. He would hate to keep you waiting, Dorian.”

Like that, Cosmia eased herself out of her chair, still clasping her book in her hand as she wandered back into the house. At the same moment, the slave emerged from the house with tea, which she offered him with a demure smile before retreating inside again.

Which left Dorian alone in the gardens feeling, despite the tall walls of the garden and the solitude of this space, _exposed_.

_Well matched_ , she said. And it was true enough: he and Cassius were united in objective, in a natural understanding of Tevinter, of both its occluded dangers and its bright potentials. But she’d said it with a steady, knowing stare that –

One hand jerked to the ring, tracing the sharp little teeth, the impossibly green emerald mined from the Niteo family holdings. It spoke of a fading empire, but a strong lineage. A promise of fidelity.

Dorian’s throat tightened. He twisted the ring around on his finger, skin prickling.

He might remove it, but of course Cassius would notice. And ask, and Dorian wasn’t sure what he could say. That rings carried a weight he wasn’t ready to shoulder. That he had a jealous lover. That it was almost _improper_ to wear the ring of a man whose ambitions had nearly seen that lover killed. Who had only given Dorian the ring as a means of apology for his earlier brutishness to an assassin who’d come within inches of death on Cassius’s behalf.

That the Inquisitor was hurt by the symbol. Politically, yes, but also –

Personally and intimately injured. That it turned him against Cassius, clouded his judgment and left him petty and prejudiced.

But a secret lover, one masquerading as a _bodyguard_ while Dorian had already claimed an end to his relationship with the Inquisitor who Cassius believed to be at a distance –

There would be no pretty way to have that conversation. No clever way to avoid Cassius’s questions or his bright and perceptive stare. No neat means to duck out from under the weight of his friend’s palm.

He left the ring in place.

A moment later, Cassius emerged from the doorway of the house, broad-shouldered and steady. The only sign that he’d been sleeping moments before was the softness of his hair. In place of his usual assured smile, however, was an expression carved of concern. “Dorian,” he started. “Your assassin – Aurelia tells me he lives, though it was… a close thing.”

Dorian’s mouth curved into an uneven smile as Cassius drew to his side, hand settling on Dorian’s shoulder as he steered them to the more shaded recesses of the garden. “Close indeed.”

“And – though I hesitate to ask, lest my concern appear selfish – was he able to find us a name? To glean anything that might help us put a name to our enemy?” His shoulders were angled near Dorian’s, the warmth rolling off his skin a suffocating weight.

Dorian shook his head. “I’m afraid he was attacked beforehand. Though of _course_ Falon wants to return –”

Cassius frowned. “They will have left already. If there was an altercation, it will have been enough to scare off this organization. They have been careful. I don’t expect to see that change right away.”

“I’m of a similar mind,” said Dorian. “Though – Cassius. We must speak of Gratian.”

Cassius gestured to a bench beneath the arching trellis where they’d been seated yesterday. Now, without the cluster of sharp smiles and sharper stares, it was a space much more suited to genuine discussion. To unwinding the matters at hand, to puzzling out the path before them through these dark woods. “What of him?”

Dorian eyed the bench, and then sat down on a metal chair to the left as Cassius settled down on the narrow seat. Too narrow for Dorian to feel comfortable taking the seat next to his friend. He turned his attention to matters more pressing. “Gratian approached me last night and made threats – threats that were seen to fruition last night. As much as I hate to give the man credit, it appears that he has a hand in this scheme. One I believe I’ve pulled into as much of a coherent whole as is possible when unravelling the wild thoughts of a deluded mind.”

“He made _threats_ ,” repeated Cassius, eyebrows shooting up. The shadows of the leaves above carved his face into planes of light and darkness, his eyes glinting as they caught the sunshine. “Let us be specific: recount the details.”

So Dorian did, spelling out the entire interaction on the balcony overlooking the crowd beneath. He painted as vivid a picture as he might: of Gratian’s glittering stare, his cruel smile, the chill that had flashed across his features. The dangers of which he had spoken, and the final, cutting words he’d spit at Dorian as he rode to find out if his lover had survived. _The night’s only just begun_. He had both promised danger to Dorian’s _assassin_ , and then vowed that further treacheries lay ahead.

Cassius listened the whole time, mouth tight, body angled forward. When Dorian finished, he puffed out a long, hard breath. “Maker, Dorian. If this _is_ Gratian, his scheme is – larger than we’d first anticipated. Let’s first address the murders. What does he gain?”

That had been Dorian’s first question in the dark of the night. “He guts your support – quite literally, might I add – which ensures that his own agenda might be pushed through.” He shifted, watching the flicker of emotion play out across Cassius’s features: first surprise, then doubt. Perhaps even something like fear.

Finally, however, his forehead creased with interest, eyes bright. Curious. “He needn’t muddy his robes in black market dealings for that, Dorian,” he said, eyes narrowing.

It was true enough at first glance, and Cassius was right to be skeptical. Indeed, that – the connection between the slaves and the Senate – was one of the chief reasons Dorian had been unable to sleep. Why bother with the escaping slaves? Why any of it?

Already, they had already postulated that the escaping slaves might be used as a means to fuel the study of the magic that left the air foul with the smell of the Fade, that left fingers blackened and turned toward Blight. “At first I thought for study, though of course he could _buy_ slaves for that at negligible price,” explained Dorian. “But there is an additional purpose, else why bother with _escaping_ slaves?”

Cassius waited, forehead creased.

Something like irritation prickled at the back of Dorian’s neck. He’d expected Cassius to keep up – but, then, Cassius had managed to get a full night’s sleep in place of blinking into the dark. “Tell me, Cassius,” said Dorian. “When a slave escapes, where does he _run_ to?”

“Into the arms of any number of organizations,” Cassius said, waving a hand dismissively. “Or any slum in the – oh.” With a flashing brightness in his eyes. “The _south_.”

“Precisely,” said Dorian. “If Gratian intercepts escaping slaves, he _endorses_ and _upholds_ slavery. Someone in the south will notice if the usual stream of slaves running to better lives… _dries up_.”

“So he upholds slavery while halting our progress in the Senate and thus our attempts to see the practice reformed.” Cassius leaned back, head tilted. His brows furrowed. “But the threats. While none of this has been _subtle_ , surely that’s all a little crass for a man such as Gratian.”

Dorian shook his head. It was a mistake he’d made about Gratian once, underestimating him; it was one Dorian wouldn’t make again. “He’s made a threat against a known Inquisition agent – and attempted to carry it out. He’s made his contempt for me _well_ known, and everyone is very aware of my ties to the Inquisitor – although in varying degrees of accuracy and salaciousness. You’re right; hardly subtle. But he’s only being _crass_ if he’s attempting to execute a delicate political maneuver. And war is anything _but_.”

Cassius’s eyes flared wide. “You think –” He paused, shaking his head and huffing out a startled breath. “Blessed Andraste. You think he’s trying to goad the south into war.”

“I do,” said Dorian, as plainly as he could while fury burnt so brightly in his bones. “He attacks the Inquisition while making it clear to anyone who knows _anything_ in the south that slavery will continue apace in Tevinter. That even those who attempt escape will be caught again in its snares.”

“He would then see us _destroyed_ ,” Cassius spit out, chest rising hard. “But not knowingly, surely. Not –” A frustrated sound escaped his throat and Cassius rose to his feet and walked to the edge of a delicate fountain. He pressed a hand to his forehead, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “All we have are pieces. Likelihoods.”

“But it does make a mad sort of sense, doesn’t it?” Because it did, however loathsome it was to grant Gratian that much credit. However awful the consequences of the man’s posturing might be. However Dorian wished, once he’d pieced the whole thing together, that he were dealing with just about anything else. He’d led the Inquisitor into a scheme that aimed to start a war and no one involved realized just how _immediate_ that potential was, just how easily it could be accomplished.

“We must tell the Archon,” Dorian said. “Radonis wished to know who murdered Vyrania. We have the culprit.” Again, his mind looped back to Gratian’s cold smile, his insistence that Dorian would be _amazed at what his fixed mind could dream up_.

Cassius shook his head. “Forgive me, but this still seems so very – foreign. I can follow the chain of thought, but…” He sighed, turning back to face Dorian. The sunlight, not yet yellowed to afternoon gold, cast his tall shadow across the tiles between them. “It’s true that he’s spoken of retaking Seheron. Of restoring the Imperium to her former grandeur, but _this_.”

_Seheron_. Immediately, Dorian’s conversation with Laetitia flashed to the forefront of his mind: Laetitia, who demanded that Cassius address the Qunari threat before she would offer her support. Who insisted that he shift his focus from slavery to the Qunari. And while Laetitia claimed she would not throw her lot in with Gratian, her focus on Seheron remained troubling. Dorian could not take her quiet dismissal of Gratian at face value; for all her proclaimed moderation, the woman remained a magister with unwavering attention. _Our nation stands toe-to-toe with a behemoth. That is where our focus ought to be, Dorian. That is certainly where my focus remains_ , Laetitia had said.

She insisted that the Qunari be addressed, whether through treaty or through war. Of that, Dorian had little doubt.

“I’m afraid,” he said, “that is an area to which we must also turn our attention. Laetitia made her needs known to us: she claims your occupation with slavery has drawn your focus from more pressing matters.”

Cassius’s frown deepened. “Not Seheron,” he said.

Dorian sighed. “I’m afraid so. Though I doubt it will matter: once Gratian’s scheme is revealed, he will lose all support from any magister who wishes to keep his seat – and his head. Archon Radonis is not forgiving. Anyone playing this game as crudely as Gratian will not be welcome in the Magisterium. Not any longer.”

“It’s not quite so simple.” Cassius waved a hand at the house from where he stood, a sharp gesture at the waiting slave, who materialized immediately with a platter of fruits and cheeses and a pitcher of pale wine. He wandered back to his seat and poured them both a glass, plucking a section of an orange from the tray and eating it before continuing. “What _precisely_ is our proof? As I said, we’ve likelihoods, Dorian. A pretty story – you’ve always been adept at spinning glittering _narratives_ – but, really, what can we bring Radonis?”

Dorian took a sip of the wine, sweet. “We’ve Gratian’s words. And a likely scheme.”

Neither of which would convince Radonis of a thing. Of course Cassius was right. His temperance, a more recently cultivated virtue, was what had seen him ascend to the Magisterium and gather so much influence even with his progressive politics.

If they couldn’t involve, the Archon, the number of moves left to them dwindled sharply. Dorian felt the shoulders of his muscles draw tight. “Well, then,” he said, “I’ll simply have to kill him.”

Because there was no world in which he would let the man go unpunished for what he had done to Talen. For what he had tried to do to Cassius’s campaign to see Tevinter made into a nobler, grander nation – to see it to its bright potential.

“Dorian, you won’t _kill_ him,” Cassius said, firm.

“I shall. I ought to have done so years ago. Had I known he would grown even _more_ of an irritation, I’d have left him a pile of ash after I left the Imperial University.”

Despite himself, a quick smile flashed across Cassius’s features, though he smothered it again readily enough. “You _won’t_ ,” said Cassius. “Don’t be foolish. The Archon is already uneasy about the presence of an Inquisition agent in the city. Imagine how he might feel if that same agent, who told Radonis himself that he’s _intimate_ with the Inquisitor, killed a prominent leader in the Magisterium. A magister, hostile toward the Inquisition, is murdered because he purportedly _made vague threats_ that can’t be corroborated.”

Frustration buzzed around his head, like a wasp. “Then I’ll leave afterwards. You’ll easily rise to power, Gratian neatly dispatched, and –”

“You’ll make _me_ look complicit by proxy, Dorian,” said Cassius, leaning forward. Earnest. “Even if somehow the Archon doesn’t think I’m also tied to the Inquisition and thereby suspicious –”

“More suspicious than any magister is under regular circumstances,” Dorian corrected.

That won him a brief chuckle, Cassius shrugging. “Yes, no more suspicious than any one of us. Even if he decides I might be not significantly more dangerous than my peers, Gratian’s followers will side with Laetitia. They won’t flock to me. I will still require her support if I’m to have the numbers to pass appropriate measures. Which means, it would seem, that we must discuss _Seheron_.”

Dorian scoffed, downing the rest of his wine and selecting a wedge of soft cheese from the platter. “And what shall we do in the meantime? Wait for Gratian to make his _evil schemes_ a little more evident?”

Cassius sighed, also finishing the rest of his wine. A sliver of sunlight cut across his face, hair flaring bronze for a moment before he tilted his head and returned to shadow. “I’m afraid so. We wait and we watch. He doesn’t know we have him so neatly dissected: we can use that to our advantage. If we’re clever – and we _are_ – we can anticipate his next move and use that knowledge against him.”

“So concrete evidence,” repeated Dorian. “Proof enough to convince the Archon, who will then gladly allow me to kill him.”

“As he said,” as a small, tentative smile curled Cassius’s mouth, “he _does_ enjoy a spectacle. And you, Dorian, are excellent at spectacle, among many other things.”

Dorian laughed, a fleeting sound. He glanced down at his empty glass, a look that Cassius noticed, reaching out to pour him more of the wine. “Then shall we discuss Seheron? How we might adequately address Laetitia’s concerns while continuing to placate those votes we’ve already counted in our favour?”

“So we shall. Though for that, I suspect we’ll need more wine.”

After the last few days, Dorian could think of nothing more appropriate.

*

He arrived back at the hotel, head buzzing with the varied implications of his discussion with Cassius – and the lingering effects of the wine they’d managed to put away in the intervening hours. Of course Cassius was perfectly correct: unless they were able to prove Gratian’s involvement, there was little enough they could do. Without a co-conspirator or papers of some sort or else a confession from the man himself, all they had was Dorian’s story. It had barely been enough to convince Cassius, though, in the end, he’d come along. Radonis would be a harder sell still.

_So we play nice with Laetitia and thwart Gratian’s plans on that front_ , Cassius had concluded, firm. _I hesitate, however, to continue to use your assassin. I would not wish to have an Inquisition agent come to harm. Seeing Gratian succeed in that would be devastating_.

Cassius hadn’t the foggiest: had Talen come to harm, had he been _killed_ , war would have found Tevinter, and no number of promises nor words nor deeds could have stopped it. Dorian himself would have cut a swath through the city. He would have _made_ the Archon’s fears a reality. There would be no recovering from that loss – a thought he felt as sharply as a blade beneath his breastbone.

They were best served by allying with Laetitia. For the other matters – proof fit enough to share with the Archon – they would need to hire someone else. Cassius had left to speak with Proxima to see whom she might recommend. It was a dangerous venture: though assassins were meant to be silent, to be anonymous, _Falon’s_ insistence that they never gave details of contracts was not necessarily accurate.

When enough coin was at play, when so much of the Magisterium’s fate hinged on what might be uncovered about one of its most powerful members, tongues tended to loosen. Interested parties often found their way to more information, and things were never, ever simple. Even at a guild as well-respected as the Society of the Black Orchid, even with Proxima ruling their members with her iron fist, information bled out.

A risky venture, then, to involve anyone else, but the other risk – of having Talen stay, of _losing_ him – was even more unacceptable. Even Cassius agreed, though he hadn’t an inkling of the potential consequences that hovered before them. He had taken Dorian’s assurance that Falon would be returning to the south at face value, believing all that Dorian told him – that the Inquisitor would be deeply unsettled, that he would try to insist that Dorian return to Skyhold, that Dorian would send Falon back south to placate the Inquisitor and to demonstrate he wasn’t being held against his will.

Although convincing Talen to return to Skyhold would be challenging, _surely_ he had to see sense. Despite all his protestations, Talen was Inquisitor and had to understand his singular value to the world. Maker knew he had grown accustomed to making difficult choices; accepting that not everyone could be saved, that it wasn’t his _responsibility_ to save everyone, had to be one of these hard truths, the brutal realities against which he could not insulate himself.

_Surely_. Dorian held the firm insistence in his mind as he stepped into the hotel. He nodded pleasantly at the slave standing watch at the door, and slipped past the reflecting pool in the front hallway. It was then that Trio materialized from the shadow of the back room, eyes flashing with worry. “I’ve managed to keep him here this long, but –”

Dorian sighed, frustration prickling at the back of his skull. Could he not have even the barest trace of trust? Wasn’t he worthy of that?

He took the stairs quickly because, knowing his lover, Talen would be just as likely to drop off the balcony out front if he thought he was being _pinned_.

Outside of the tall door, he could make out a familiar voice, one made sharp and loud with concern: _dangerous_ and _not nearly at full strength_ and _absolutely not worth the risk_.

Dorian pushed his way inside the suite, where Aurelia was standing in the middle of the front room, stiff and wide-eyed. Her head pivoted the moment Dorian came in, relief breaking across her features like dawn after an impossibly dark night. “Maker be _praised_ ,” she gasped, one hand rubbing her forehead thoughtlessly. “Amarantha has just told His Worship that he’s lucky to be alive, that he’s been _weakened_ and will need time to adequately recover, and already he’s –”

“So I’m sore,” said Talen, voice low. He sat on the chaise, tugging on a vambrace with a jerky movement that creased his forehead with pain, lips thinned. “Those being held captive in the warehouse will be _dead_. That’s a little more pressing.”

Dorian suppressed the sigh threatening to loose itself from his throat. This was not – unfamiliar, Talen’s self-sacrificial efforts, his dogged focus on protecting the vulnerable despite threats to his own well-being.

Thankfully, Dorian had seen him do this often enough to have developed a robust set of tactics to divert the Inquisitor’s attention to other arenas. To stay his hand and keep him steady. Dorian folded his arms across his chest, tilting his head as he watched Talen. The first tactic, a tidy little rhetorical formation that was plain but often effective: _pragmatism_.

“The warehouse will be empty,” said Dorian, carefully keeping his tone even. “You killed – how many was it? Five of their number? Impressive, true, but enough to warrant attention. And _caution_. This is meant to be a secret operation, yes? A rather unlikely way to stay secret, lingering in place after a lone assassin who is known to be incredibly _stubborn_ has come within inches of puzzling out all the answers.”

Aurelia shifted her weight, thin panels of her robes sliding across her legs. “It’s true. Especially because you used the mark. They will know something is afoot, something large.”

Talen’s eyes narrowed. “There are no guarantees. They may still be there – and, if you’re _right_ and they _aren’t_ , it will be all that much safer for me. Walking to the harbour is a simple enough stroll. Even the healer agreed that a walk would be fine.”

Very well, a failed attempt. Dorian reoriented his thoughts, prepared for a second line of attack – _duty_ and _obligation_. “If it’s a walk you’re after, Inquisitor, then might I suggest a trip to the vineyards to the north? They’re lovely this time of year. I seemed to recall you promised Ambassador Montilyet that you would see if there were new sources from which she might obtain wine, now that she’s gained a modicum of sense and decided that purchasing from Tevinter would be best.”

Irritation flashed across Talen’s features, before he tucked it away. “No,” he said flatly. “Even if the chance is small that I might offer aid to those who need it, it’s – worthwhile. As I said, matters of life and death tend to be a little more _pressing_ than stiff muscles and bruises. Certainly more pressing than wine, Dorian.”

“I should say that ensuring the safety of the Inquisitor is a sight more pressing still,” said Dorian, sharpening the blade of rhetoric. “As I rather _don’t_ fancy seeing the Imperium at war with the rest of Thedas, or the chaos that would engulf all of the south. Nor would I like to be on the receiving end of Leliana’s displeasure. I’m speaking selfishly, of course – war does _not_ agree with me. Do you know how difficult it is to obtain decent wine in war time? Even the Ferelden vintages, foul though they may be.”

Talen huffed, sparing Dorian the thinnest and smallest of smiles. “I recall.” Still, he reached and pulled on another vambrace, tightening the buckles with stiff fingers.

Not quite yet, then. Dorian pressed onwards. He hadn’t found the right gap in the armour: first pragmatism, then duty, and finally guilt. How little Dorian liked to use this particular weapon, but circumstance demanded.

“Amatus,” Dorian sighed, “I would also implore you to _recall_ Adamant.” His attention flicked to Aurelia for a moment, who’d folded her arms in upon herself and stood taut as rigging in the center of the room.

Peculiar, to be exposing himself so readily before her – but he had little enough choice.

Talen’s fingers stilled over the buckles, though his eyes remained fixed on the vambraces.

Dorian cleared his throat, which tightened at the memory of the entire thing: his certainty in losing Talen, his belated realization that his terror meant more than he could have imagined. That _Talen_ meant more. A point he would prod, like a bruise. “How utterly unlikely, I thought. How rare and impossible. In almost losing you, it became abundantly clear that I couldn’t live without you. And to think I almost lost you again last night –”

He could see Talen’s facade crack, just slightly: a sudden stiffness in his neck, the downward turn of his mouth. “Dorian,” he began, looking up. His stare was haunted, wounded.

Dorian pushed the advantage. “I told you then you were a reckless fool, but that I would have you as _my_ reckless fool nonetheless,” he said. “That hasn’t changed.”

He slid past Aurelia, whose eyes he could feel on him like the weight of all the world’s judgment – like chains draped across his shoulders, manacles pinching his wrist for all of Tevinter to see. Though he was sure she wouldn’t think less of him, to speak this plainly in front of one of his peers in the Imperium was to be made –

Vulnerable.

A risk he would take. Dorian sat down on the chaise next to Talen, whose stare had dropped again to the floor. He reached, took one of Talen’s calloused hands in his own, tracing the shape of those slender and deadly fingers with his thumb.

“For me,” Dorian murmured, “please set this aside.”

A foul little weapon to draw on his lover, this guilt. To unsheath _this_ knife when he knew Talen was so vulnerable to its blade, that he opened his arms and embraced the hurt. He had told Dorian how unworthy he felt, how very _fortunate_ he was to have Dorian. To turn that against him –

He would do what he needed to if he could see Talen to safety. Even if it left Dorian feeling dirtied afterwards. If he had to win back his lover’s trust, so be it. So long as Talen was safe, so long as he was alive, Dorian would have all the time in the world to make reparations for foul little rhetorical tricks. For all the things he did for Talen’s sake.

Across the room, Aurelia turned and moved toward the balcony, no doubt under the auspices of giving them privacy. An awkward movement, like a foal walking on unsteady legs.

Yes, she would have already seen and heard more than she’d anticipated. Still, he held his lover’s hand in his own, firm.

Finally, Talen sighed, a short and hard sound. “ _Vhenan_ ,” he said, “I would do almost anything for you. But this – I expected us to be allied in this. When first I saw the slaves being led into the warehouse, I thought to find you so that we could free them together. _Of course he’ll understand_ , I thought. _He’s the only one who could_.”

Dorian felt the words like the throwing knives Talen flicked across the battlefield, each syllable a hit against his sternum. Each one knocking the breath from him. His hand withdrew.

“I don’t do this just to help you, Dorian. I certainly don’t do it on behalf of – _him_. I do this for those who’ve been caught in the jaws of this awful nation. If theirs are lives I can save –”

A sound, half-shaped like a bitter laugh, tore from Dorian’s throat. Jagged. Lives he could save –  at _what_ cost and by _what_ right. “We agreed that if you came, you would defer to my judgment,” he started.

“Sometimes your judgment is wrong.” Talen’s shoulders straightened, brows furrowing.

“And sometimes _you_ show a remarkable pig-headedness in the face of _basic sense_. A group of – how many did you say, thirty? – is hardly worth your life.”

Talen’s eyes flared wider as he jerked back. “I’m not – I don’t have more worth than other people, Dorian. That sounds like something your magister would say.”

Absurd. Dorian would have him reminded of his role, his _place_ in the world and what that meant. Talen had been too long free of the Inquisition; he’d begun to lose all its lessons. “You asked soldiers to die on your behalf, Talen. In that you acknowledge –”

“These aren’t _soldiers,”_ said Talen, leaping to his feet. The gesture flashed pain across his features, clear as the daylight beyond the balcony where Aurelia hovered, her hands twisted into knots. “These are people in _danger._ They didn’t ask to be born into this life or forced into servitude.”

So this is what it came down to, yet again: the Inquisitor’s deep and abiding _guilt_ over the life he’d managed to make for himself. That he’d risen to the heights of power while so many of his people still scrabbled in the mud.

It was something Dorian could almost understand. His own life had been built on the backs of others in the Imperium – but one didn’t ask to be given _any_ life. One simply had it, and throwing it away achieved nothing beyond more misery.

He studied Talen’s wide stare, his furrowed brow, the rise and fall of his chest. Dorian forced the irritation prickling against his sternum to settle, swallowing down the first few iterations of his response until he landed on one less _frustrated._ “Nor did you ask to bear the Anchor,” he said, “but you have it nonetheless. That shapes your reality, as their reality is shaped by the circumstances beyond their control. Theirs dictates pain and suffering, yes, and _injustice._ I will not argue the point, Talen, but _your_ reality demands _care.”_

None of the dark fury left Talen’s stare. When he spoke, however, he’d also smoothed his tone to something more controlled, even if the edges of his syllables did tremble with – _something._ “This mark, this role, has made me into something else, true. But that something else, that _someone_ else, is meaningless unless I act as a force for justice. Unless I do what I can to better the world.”

He was going to get himself _killed._ Martyr himself for an imagined effect in the Imperium that would never come to fruition. Change did not happen here because someone killed themselves saving _thirty souls_. Change happened on the floor of the Magisterium: it took ambition and vision and careful, controlled manipulation. It took _years_ – but Talen seemed blind to that truth. Infuriatingly, stupidly blind.

He was going to kill himself, and Dorian would never again be whole. And for what – to placate his own _guilt?_ No.

Something dark and wounded and raw beat itself into life in Dorian’s chest, flaring like an ember set to parched grasslands. “You better the world by being _in_ it,” Dorian snapped, heart a ragged, desperate clamour inside of him. “No – you can’t go. It’s absolutely ridiculous. I forbid it.”

The words were like an incantation: Talen went perfectly still, as though fixed in place with some treacherous piece of time magic. Held forever in this moment, the room silent except for the imagined echo of Dorian’s sharp words. _I forbid it_. Words that still tasted like fire – like ash and smoke and blood – in Dorian’s mouth. _I forbid it_ , but he did. He would not permit this to happen.

A breeze billowed the curtains inwards, dancing in sunlight and shadow and shattering the moment.

Talen blinked, once, mouth a taut line. His hands were clenched by his sides, so tightly that he no doubt dug divots into his own palms. Then, said slowly and precisely, as though he’d never uttered words more significant, “I am not yours, Dorian.” A small sound deep in his throat, then, “I love you, but I am not yours to command.”

In it, Dorian could hear the ghost of Cassius’s words. _In love, we possess another person, make them our own, stake ownership_.

Of course it wasn’t what Dorian meant but –

_You can’t go. I forbid it_. The words circled around in his head, an insistent and vicious little loop, one that made Dorian’s stomach curl in on itself, that made his blood sting. Like poison had worked its way to his heart and pounded itself throughout every limb and fiber of his being. This nation and her inculcation to the thoughtless evil that propped up the glittering spires, her vile little norms that became so utterly _normal_ as to be beyond conscious thought.

“I’m going,” Talen said, firm and quiet in the tense silence of the room. “If they’re still there, they need our help.” A pause followed, Talen swallowing the syllables down, his stare never wavering despite the tremor of his voice. “ _My_ help.”

If _this_ was what Talen required to be placated, if this was what would – bleed some of the ugliness from Dorian’s words, so be it. “If you’re going to be enough of a fool to do this,” he said, “then I’ll go as well.”

A capitulation that saw none of the stiff hurt leave Talen’s features. That missed the mark entirely, made clumsy by – this _feeling_ that pounded through his veins. That left him unsteady in all things. Still, Talen jerked his chin down, disappearing for a moment to the back of the suite.

Aurelia huffed out a breath, as though she’d been holding it the entire time. Dorian looked at her, his mouth curled downward. “Rather less than you were expecting,” he muttered. To witness such a display, to see Dorian’s ugliness and the Inquisitor’s vulnerabilities revealed, to witness Talen’s ceaseless _stubbornness_ –

“No,” said Aurelia. “Quite the opposite. He is precisely everything I’d imagined.”

Like another blow to the ribs. Dorian stood, straightening the lines of his robes, his skin prickling.

Then, “He must be easy to love, but _infinitely_ difficult as well. To be so vulnerable to his nobility. To be at the mercy of what this cruel world may do to so good a heart.” She moved closer, head tilted, tight curls soft around her face. Written across her features was a genuine sympathy.

One Dorian didn’t deserve. One he didn’t want.

Talen emerged from the back rooms, daggers strapped across his back, features tight. He tipped his head toward the door, though his eyes didn’t meet Dorian’s. Couldn’t, perhaps.

“I’ll come as well,” said Aurelia. “Should we run into difficulty, another ally will be of use.”

A thin smile flickered across Talen’s mouth. “Allies are always of use,” he said. And, like that, Dorian’s heart a slow and unending ache inside his chest, at once wounded and terrified of what lay ahead for them, mind pounding with imagined scenarios that no amount of logic could burn from him, they headed out of the hotel and into the wilds of Minrathous.

*

His entire body hurt, an unyielding reminder of the previous night that no amount of magic could dissipate. His muscles were knotted with pain, ghosted with the echo of every movement of the battle, his bones as heavy as if they were shaped from iron. His head pounded, a ferocious cacophony that only grew louder out in the bright city, with its white walls and impossibly blue sky, with the jagged silence of the man at his side. The pain made his vision unsteady, each heartbeat like a twist of a knife.

Still, other things mattered more.

As always, eyes skated right over him as they passed through the afternoon crowds that buzzed with conversation and colour, although Talen wore the signs of someone who had been sorely abused. Perhaps they assumed he belonged to one of the two Altus walking with him; perhaps they assumed he had rightly deserved some punishment for imagined transgressions.

Perhaps they didn’t even notice, as inurred to the injuries inflicted on elves as they were to the colour of the sky, the taste of the air, the feel of the afternoon heat.

He had been so scared of dying, so _insistent_ on returning to Dorian that he’d never imagined –

This. The gulf between them, lined with rocks sharp enough to cut.

Dorian came with him not because he thought it was worthwhile, but because he was _irritated._ Because he had tried to forbid Talen from doing what his conscience demanded – the conscience that had seem them defeat Corypheus, that had seen them shape the world for better – and had failed.

In place of the ally he had believed was at his side stood someone growing stranger with each passing day. Who would send Talen away while wearing the favour of his magister.

They were small worries, dwarfed by the worries of those Talen would see helped now. Worries about the man he loved, worries about what this country was _doing_ to Dorian, what it would demand of him before he ever saw Niteo to power.

_My heart now dwells in you_ , Talen had told Dorian just yesterday. And how he felt it, the ache of his heart beating in another’s chest – never quite a perfect fit, this rib too close, this chamber too large – but a pain that sanctified nonetheless. How he had needed to have his lover at his side, his _ally_ in all things.

Something that became a more distant and imagined intimacy with each passing day. Like a dream that faded with each moment of waking.

It would be enough to drown him, all of it, were his mind not pain-bright and pinned on the slaves he’d seen passing into the warehouse. How many of them had broken hearts, he wondered. How many were so ceaselessly vulnerable to those that they loved?

Talen turned at one of the narrow alleys that cut an indirect route toward the water – his usual means of getting around the city. Behind him, Dorian drew to a stop. “Where are you _going?”_ he breathed, drawing to Talen’s elbow and squinting into the shadowed alleyway.

“To the warehouse.”

Dorian flashed him a skeptical look. “This heads in entirely the wrong direction. The gates are the other way – first over the canal and then past the Antivan cobbler. Perhaps that blow to the head did more than leave you half purple.” With a smile he no doubt meant to be affectionate.

Instead, it was thin. Uneasy.

The knife at the back of Talen’s skull twisted, sharp, vision going white for a moment. “There are many ways to move around Minrathous,” he said, swallowing down the hurt, ignoring it as best he could. “Avoiding the Imperial guard is – ideal.” He stood still, smoothing his breathing, quelling the nausea curdling his gut. He could reach out, clasp his fingers around Dorian’s forearm, steady himself in that way but –

Talen sucked in a long breath, cool air from the shadowed alleyway allaying the worst of the prickling and heated nausea. He would walk without staggering; he would do so on his own. He just needed a moment.

Dorian made a sound in his throat, peering down the alleyway, his eyes bright with curiosity. “Funny,” he said finally, “Most of my younger years were whittled away in this city, and yet this is _new.”_

Talen tried to smile, but he felt the expression fall flat.

There was only so much pretending he could do, and with the ache of his heart and the pain living in every fiber of every muscle, burnt into the marrow of his bones – well. He could forgive himself his inability to pretty up his expression.

Instead, he said, “Well. Your Minrathous is very different than the one most of us live in.”

Talen took off down the alleyway, feet once again reliable beneath him. He vaulted over blockades of crates or debris, prying off familiar grates as they crept their way beneath the neighbourhood walls. He paused another few times to try and gather himself, to breathe steadily enough for the pain to recede, for the pounding of his blood to lessen.

Once, huddled in the tunnel that burrowed its way beneath a broad neighbourhood wall, Dorian reached and pressed his hand to the bones of Talen’s wrist. An attempt at intimacy, along with the brightness with which he tried to smile at Talen. Both were facades, however, as if nothing had happened. As if nothing had changed.

As if Dorian’s concerns weren’t – patronizing. Selfish, even.

It felt like being touched by a stranger.

Talen sniffed and edged forward to the final grate, glancing back at the two mages who followed him. “We’re nearly there.”

In the dark, he could make out Aurelia’s frown, a serious, focused expression. Could see the line creasing the skin of Dorian’s forehead.

He reached and pushed the grate out, the muscles of his forearms screaming, the palms of his hands still scraped raw. Leliana’s healer had said that it was best to let the smaller injuries heal themselves: she had poured enough magic into him to address the major issues, but insisted that, for someone whose body might metabolize magic differently than an average person, it was wise to play it safe.

How he regretted her caution. If they did run into trouble –

He couldn’t think of it. Talen dropped out and on to the ground below, turning to help both Aurelia and Dorian down, though his shoulders burned as if a fire crackled just inches from his skin. Once they were settled, both mages taut as bowstrings, they headed toward the warehouse.

Even at a distance, Talen could see it was empty. Around them, the warehouse still a small shape in the distance, the docks were bustling – as noisy as they were colourful. Workers hauled crates off of ships that had just come into port, wagons crowding the waterfront and the air filled with a handful of different languages shouted with varying intensity. The warehouse, however, stood in isolation, as if it had been stricken by a plague.

A closer look wouldn’t hurt. He continued onward, walking quickly but steadily. Careful not to draw attention to himself.

Aurelia and Dorian, however, couldn’t help but pull notice. Already, sets of eyes followed them, as if predators eyeing prey. Foolish, of course: everyone here knew that to grapple with an Altus meant to risk being crushed beneath the might of the city’s masters.

It didn’t stop wounded animals from licking their lips all the same.

Talen looped back, gesturing for them to continue on ahead. “Let me know if it’s locked,” he murmured to Aurelia, who angled herself straight for the door while Talen watched their backs. Both she and Dorian walked with their heads held high, as if they saw none of the bustling crowd around them, as if they didn’t notice the dirt-caked children crawling over piles of rope, or the Rivaini crew members smoking rolled leaf and spitting into the harbour. As if they didn’t feel the lull in conversation that followed them, like a Templar’s nullification.

Talen shot dark looks at a scrappy knot of youth loitering by the canal. Stared daggers at dockworkers maneuvering heavy crates and lashing them on sagging wagons. This was his part of the city, and he knew how to speak its language – one of silent threat and promises made with furious stares.

Finally, Aurelia drew to the warehouse door, Dorian by her side. It swung open easily enough, and the mages disappeared inside.

Talen was quick to follow, closing and barring the door behind them.

The space inside was quiet as a crypt – and one not filled to the brim with demons, unlike many he’d encountered. The air was thick, salty and musty all at once, as if wet goods had been left in a pile in some forgotten corner. They made their way down the hallway, past strings of bare rooms and into the cavernous space on the water.

It was empty, the whole thing. Talen traced the edge, looking for anything, _anything,_ that might be a clue as to who stood at the helm of this foul venture. Beyond a spray of blood against one wall, a sign of what had befallen the slaves that left him weak in the knees, there was nothing.

“The Fade’s – unsettled,” Aurelia said distantly, her voice echoing in the large space.

“Someone did see it fit to tear a hole in it,” said Dorian. “It’s slow in knitting itself back together.”

Talen reached out, fingers tracing the dried blood on the wooden walls. Throat thick, and not from the pain that lived in every fiber of his body. From his failure. Had he left sooner, had he been more _clever_ –

“It’s dangerous for us to be here,” said Dorian from across the room. Talen looked at him over his shoulder, the tight lines Dorian’s arms made across his body, his thinned lips, the flashing eyes. “As I expected, _nothing._ Even coming here is a risk, _especially_ with the aftereffects of the mark hanging in the air like smoke. We must go.”

“In a moment,” Talen said, words distant even to his own ears. Still, his hand lingered on the boards. Beneath his boots, dark droplets dotted the wood. How many had died here? How many were ferried away to other ends? Had it been one who resisted who met the edge of the blade, or had the slaves been _disposed of_ when it was revealed that someone had killed the ringleader’s hired swords?

He would know whose deaths he was responsible for – the names of those he’d failed to save. Here, however, it was knowledge barred to him: were these soldiers, as Dorian had tried to suggest, he would know their names, their families. He would have heard the oaths sworn to the Inquisition, have understood precisely what their sacrifice meant, how it _contributed._

These deaths were nothing like that. These were losses he couldn’t even begin to articulate: senseless, nameless. Just voids, blacknesses that lived inside his heart.

Footsteps echoed through the empty space, clear and precise. Behind him, Dorian’s voice. “Staring at dried blood will do no one any good. You’ve come and seen all there is to see. We need to leave.”

Silence, still. In the distance, Talen could hear Aurelia quietly make her way back down the hallway that led to the docks beyond.

“You did all you could,” Dorian tried, though his tone was sharp with an irritation he couldn’t suppress. “You nearly died for them.”

“Which accomplished nothing,” Talen murmured. He drew his hand back, fingers tingling.

A short sound escaped Dorian’s throat. “Precisely,” he said. “I do hope this puts you off playing the martyr: it _accomplishes nothing_. Save your own demise, which would be remarkably pointless and dreadfully inglorious.”

Talen’s neck stiffened, gut twisting as he turned away from the last trace of the slaves he’d needed to save. Dorian watched him, eyes bright, studious – though apparently he saw _nothing_. Though he still missed the point entirely.

Talen had run out of ways to explain this to him.

This was a choice he’d already made, Talen thought distantly. He made it without realizing when first he failed to save the dark-eyed boy and his compatriots; he acknowledged the decision before him when he chose to act for the vulnerable rather than for Niteo.

Even if he had imagined Dorian would be at his side in this, the path remained clear: he would see justice done. If Dorian instead chose to linger in the perfumed rooms of Minrathous, to play at change in the echoing halls of the Senate, in the intimate gardens of his magister, so be it.

Talen shouldered by Dorian and followed Aurelia from the warehouse. He slipped past her just as readily, cutting a straight path back toward The Dragon’s Heart. As soon as Dorian was otherwise occupied, he would return to every warehouse that had ever known an _Oriolus_ connection. Rilere knew something; she’d shown up at the same warehouse to stop whatever scheme was afoot.

He would seek out allies in this, even if he didn’t find one in the man who held his heart.

Talen strode back toward the heights of Minrathous, Aurelia chasing after him while Dorian followed even farther behind. They wound their way through the city, over its rotten foundations and toward the glittering hills that were due to come crashing down. Even the bright pain hounding Talen’s thoughts couldn’t burn the certainty from his mind: he was not done in this.

He didn’t look back as he slipped through hidden alleyways and forgotten paths. Dorian could find his own way.

*

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eternal thanks to the lovely and perfect [squidpaw](http://squidpaw.tumblr.com/), who is a phenomenal beta and voice of encouragement and guide through the darkest hours of writing. She is the hero everyone deserves.
> 
> I've been taking prompts over on my blog, which has resulted in some really fun little pieces that have helped enrich my understanding of this world. So! If you'd like to know more about Cassius, here is [his tag](http://mstigergun.tumblr.com/tagged/cassius-niteo). There's [a little story about Cassius and Cosmia first meeting (and smooching!)](http://mstigergun.tumblr.com/post/126112288803/6-cassius-and-his-wife-because-wow-awkward-we) if you'd like to know more about _her_ ; she's actually in this chapter because my friend [weyrbound](http://weyrbound.tumblr.com) asked about her and then I wrote about her and fell in love. Have something you'd like me to tackle? [Please feel free to drop into my askbox!](http://mstigergun.tumblr.com/ask)
> 
> AND ON THAT NOTE: if you'd like to get in touch, please do! I am always keen to make new friends and to hear your thoughts on OCs or writing or this story or Tevinter as a thing or basically Any And All Of The Things. I'm also getting really close to a follower milestone, at which point I'll be doing a giveaway, so if you're on Tumblr and haven't yet subjected yourself to [the mess of feelings and words and pictures and weird anecdotes that is my blog](http://mstigergun.tumblr.com), feel free to join in the fun!
> 
> Thank you, as always, for reading and commenting and liking and all of that good stuff. For real, your reactions and interactions are what keep me going when the going gets tough. FOR REAL.
> 
> Only nine more chapters to go!
> 
> ("Only," she says, as a lone tear trails down her cheek and she pours herself a very large glass of wine. _"Only."_ )


	9. All That Might Be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **AUTHOR'S NOTE: IMPORTANT**
> 
>  
> 
> tl;dr: I'm finishing Within The Hearts, but am switching to an outline/summarized chapter format so that you can see how things end -- who's behind those murders? what's going on with Talen and Dorian? will Cassius ever make a for-real move on Dorian? when will there be more kissing? -- without me having an emotional breakdown or just ignoring this story forever and ever.
> 
> Okay, so obviously I've been struggling with telling this story, and that struggle has led me to this conclusion: I do not have another 100 000 words of Within Their Hearts left in me. I can't write it. It's just not going to happen. There are other projects calling my name, other things that need my attention, and this started as a way for me to have fun. While I still love this story, writing this out as prose has become a chore, one that occupies a great deal of time I could be spending in other ways. I have felt super, super, super guilty about this for a long timer, but have come to a decision: while I don't have 100 000 words of Within Their Hearts left in me, I _do_ have the entire story rattling around in my brain, plotted and broken down chapter-by-chapter. 
> 
> And so here's what I'm going to do (taking a page from the wonderful comic [Best Friends Forever](http://www.bffcomic.com/), which transitioned over to pseudo-chapters with some illustrations and quite a bit of text): **I will be finishing Within Their Hearts by writing summaries of all of the action, key conversations, and content.** Essentially, I'll be giving you a play-by-play summarized break-down of how the story ends. It won't be prose, but it'll be a detailed outline -- the sort I write for myself when constructing one of these chapters.
> 
> I know this is probably disappointing for those of you who've been reading this fic for ages. A number of you have made me art, have left lovely comments, have read WTH multiple times. I'm hoping that, in this way, I'll be able to give you some sense of story closure. Thank you so much for all of your support and input, and I hope you enjoy the ride to the end.
> 
> Please note, the first part of this chapter is, indeed, prose. It's been done since January, which gives you a sense of just how badly I've been spinning my wheels on this one. Thanks for your patience, friends!

**Chapter 9: All That Might Be**

*

 

> _the Voice of the Maker rang out,_
> 
> _The first Word,_
> 
> _And His Word became all that might be:_
> 
> _Dream and idea, hope and fear,_
> 
> _Endless possibilities._
> 
> _( Threnodies, 5.1 )_

*

“I heard the _most_ curious piece of gossip at the dinner party last night,” Dorian said, voice drifting to the front reception room from the rear balcony, where he fussed with his robes and preened in the looking-glass.

Talen didn’t look up from the book resting in his lap, its unfamiliar letters hovering before his eyes without any meaning. He didn’t have the focus to pick apart the syllables and then translate them, and so had been staring blankly at the page for far too long.

He closed the tome, something Aurelia had brought earlier in the week. _A history of the city_ , she’d offered, looking nearly as tired as Talen still felt, the desperate scramble for his own life imprinted on him in ways beyond the expected. Yes, he’d been bruised and cut and _bled_ , but the weariness, the stiff reluctance for movement, the endless sense of his own fragility, lingered in the very marrow of his bones.

He hated being here, trapped in this blighted suite. Which is why Aurelia had brought the book, something to hold his interest so that he didn’t turn his attentions to the harbour neighbourhoods and the potential for leads.

As if that had worked.

He’d huffed, though, put on a show. _I’d rather a dossier on the black market organizations in the city._

 _Ah_ , she’d said, with a quick little smile, _but Minrathous has fascinating architectural traditions._ A pause, then she’d leaned closer, narrow shoulders edging near Talen’s own as they sat next to each other on the chaise – an intimacy, a _proximity_ , few entertained when learning of his title. _Besides_ , Aurelia had murmured, _we can’t worry Dorian. So long as I’m bringing you perfectly benign books, I can also bring what little snippets of information I find_. Her lips had curled conspiratorially, and then she’d been off in her usual whirlwind of energy and intent – to the very same dinner party to which Dorian was now referring.

Aurelia’s was a kind offer – to come bearing information, whatever she gleaned in parlours or cafes, over wine or stuffed grape leaves.

It was kind, yes, but also unnecessary.

Talen had his own ways of clawing his way toward answers, even with Dorian watching him so very closely. After all, Dorian might believe he had the upper hand in Minrathous – an Altus name and all the power it commanded, the unthinking loyalty – but Talen had his title, and _that_ carried far more weight with Trio than the Pavus crest.

And, as miserable as he was, as stiff as his muscles were, as taut as his bruised tendons, Talen was still used to scaling balconies, accustomed to moving through shadow and passing unnoticed through little alleyways. He’d just taken to moving at night when Dorian was out, and being more efficient still in his journeys around the city.

Not that he’d gleaned much.

Talen sighed, stare flicking toward the front balcony. Its gauzy curtains billowed in the evening breeze, soft rain pattering down against the stone. He closed the book. “And what gossip was that?” he asked.

A rustle of fabric, and Dorian emerged from the bedroom. His hair was coiffed with its usual care, the corners of his eyes shimmering with whatever product he’d used: the candlelight caught the rings he wore, the subtle sheen in his robes. He’d clasped the robes with a wide, dark belt slung low across his hips.

A man spun from gold, who moved with a liquid grace.

For a moment, Talen’s heart twisted, chest tight.

His _vhenan_ , bent on making the Imperium better.

If only he understood how futile the task was Dorian stayed within the perfumed rooms of Minrathous. If he remained at the behest of the magister by his side.

Though now, Talen thought distantly, there were _two_ magisters at his side: Aurelia’s circle had seen her elected, and if Talen were forced to put his hopes, thin though they may be, for the Magisterium in any hands, they would be hers.

But even Aurelia was too little, too late. Even she was afflicted by proximity to Niteo.

“Rather odd,” sighed Dorian, sitting in the chair opposite the settee where Talen was stretched, book a heavy weight in his lap. “ _Apparently_ , Thalia Caunus – a _highly_ decorated enchanter at the Imperial University; she specializes in a rather obscure but not unimportant branch of rift magic, though,” a pause, and he smiled, waved one hand, “I suppose her scholarly endeavours hardly matter, except to lend credence to her account – was wandering by the waters to _clear her head_ . Aurelia seems to suspect she was instead visiting a disgraced cousin, but that’s neither here nor there. What’s rather more pertinent is that as she was wandering, Caunus came across what she described as a _tear_ in the Veil, one that had been rather clumsily slapped back together by an unpracticed hand.”

Talen sat up, pushing his book out of the way. “A tear,” he said. “Like – but no, the attacks didn’t leave traces like that before. Still, if they’re _pushing_ –”

“I’m afraid it has nothing to do with the murders, amatus,” Dorian said. “And I will admit, I did have to bite my tongue when Elena was repeating the story. _Unpracticed_. Hardly.”

It was meant to be a compliment, but it fell flat. “I wouldn’t have thought anyone noticed,” Talen said distantly, something sick churning in his stomach, like a day-old hangover that refused to let go.

“Say what you will about magisters,” said Dorian, with a flutter of one hand, “but they aren’t _always_ extraordinarily dense. Caunus seems to have hypothesized that the Venatori may be active within Minrathous, but Elena – rather clever, really. Her brother’s an idiot, but she’s a sharp mind. She suggested that the Inquisitor might be in hiding here. No doubt she brought the whole matter up in the first place because she wanted to gauge my reaction.”

“And what was your reaction?” asked Talen.

“ _Ah_ , I said, _that would be rather fascinating, as I’ve just had a letter and Inquisitor Lavellan is currently being hosted by Duchess d’Argent at her country estate in southern Orlais. Though it is possible, I suppose, that he’s mastered the hitherto impossible form of magic of being in two places at once. He is a singularly stubborn man, after all._ ”

“A duchess?”

“Well, Elena’s hardly going to _check_. She and the d’Argents have a long-standing feud that absolutely prohibits her from contacting them lest she be forced into anything resembling an apology for her brother’s behaviour when they were last in Val Royeaux. Besides,” he added, with an indulgent smile, “it’s well-known that you’ve an inordinate fondness for Orlesian cakes.”

Talen huffed. Back on point, however. “But – you don’t think anyone will suspect –”

“Oh, there’ll be rumours, but so long as you continue to lay low, we ought to be fine. I don’t suppose I can convince you to think of returning to Skyhold.”

“No,” said Talen, flatly.

“I hadn’t suspected so. You do love to worry me, after all.”

Heat prickled at the back of his neck. “I don’t – That’s not why –”

“Ah, a poor jest. No, Talen, so long as you remain here, there’s no cause for concern. And with the point proven regarding the warehouses, you can genuinely _rest_ – why, it may be the first time in years. And you’ve,” with a quick glance at the spine of the book laying next to Talen’s thigh, “a _history of Minrathous_ to keep you company. Though I could send up one of the sl – servants, if you’d like.”

“That’s right,” Talen said distantly, guilt wrapping its grasping fingers around his stomach. Tightening around his throat. “You’re going – where was it tonight?”

“The dreadfully over-styled household of Yanna Nepos. It’s going to be a very dull affair – it’s all _international relations_ tonight, and her wretched taste in wine.”

Something itched at the back of Talen’s mind. Her name –

“Wait,” he said. “She’s from – In the garden?”

Dorian’s lips thinned. He tipped back his glass of wine, draining it. “I’m afraid she’s one and the same. Vile woman, but we’ve several proposals to run by her before we can get near Laetitia again, and if we can’t win _her_ , then we’re dead in the water, I’m afraid. Out of the game before the Senate doors have even opened.”

Endless games, Talen thought, though he jerked his chin down to show he’d heard. That he understood.

Dorian rose. “Well,” he said, with a long and drawn-out sigh, “I’m off for the evening, then. Do wish me luck – if I manage to make it through the evening without biting my tongue clear through –”

Talen pushed himself up as well, biting back the grimace as his limbs burned with that awful, familiar ache. “Good luck, _vhenan_ ,” he said. “And give Aurelia my best.”

For a moment, Dorian hesitated. He reached out with one graceful hand, heavy with gold rings, though none of them bore those familiar emerald eyes, that sharp-toothed, yawning mouth, fingers hesitating in the air near Talen’s cheek. A quiet moment later, and his hand sank down to Talen’s shoulder.

The skirting of intimacy. They hadn’t spoken of it, but Dorian understood that he’d made a mistake. That he’d –

Let Talen down.

Creators, that it had come to this. That this empire had done this to them.

He swallowed down the ache, a far keener one lodged just there beneath his sternum, broken off in the thick muscle of his heart, and looked up at Dorian. Studied the sharp lines of his face, the dark kohl lining his eyes – bright, even in the dim room, even on a gray and damp day. “Dorian,” he started.

“I – do what I must,” Dorian said then, hand still heavy against Talen’s shoulder, though he stood at a distance. “You understand that. I do what must be done to see the Imperium become all she ought to be, for the good of us all. But I must do it in my own way. I must do it in a way that will _work_ here.”

A frown flickered across Talen’s face, one he felt rather than intended, before he smoothed it away.

Dorian looked – _guilty_.

But if Talen hoped to have time to make it back down to the harbour and back before the end of Dorian’s dinner party, then now wasn’t the time to pursue that line of inquiry.

“I understand,” he said, quiet. He reached out and touched the soft draping of Dorian’s robes, so soft and light that Talen half-expected the shimmer to slough off on his fingers. To leave him imprinted with gold.

But he wasn’t. He was only embossed by old hurt. Marked with his promise – _just vengeance_.

 _I understand_ , he said, and he could try. But his obligation to his people – _his_ people, those mistreated by this bloated empire, this rotten city – came first. Would always come first. Had to, if he was meant to live with himself.

Though living with having _that_ thought –

Talen tried to smile. “ _Ar lath ma_ ,” he murmured, stepping in closer and pressing a kiss to Dorian’s lips.

He could feel Dorian smile against him, and that hurt even more.

When he drew away, Dorian smoothed his robes. “I’ll think on that,” he said happily, “when I’m listening to Yanna prattle on about _Par Vollen_. You may yet save me from losing my mind under the sheer weight of her ill-informed opinions.”

And then, like that, he was gone. Off through the gray day and toward the dark little party where self-important people would talk and theorize while sipping on wine that cost more than the people serving it.

Talen would turn his attentions elsewhere. To the choppy waters of the harbour, the mildewed buildings clustered there, to the empty rooms that once held people. He walked to the back of the suite and pulled on his leathers, biting back the soft groans that rippled their way from his gut at each little movement. That left his skin hot, left him feeling raw and chafed and _vulnerable_.

He didn’t allow himself to think about Dorian, or the way his vhenan had smiled at him when he left. He didn’t let himself think about what it meant to walk different paths.

He couldn’t.

Besides, Talen was accustomed to walking alone. If that’s what he had to do to see justice done, to see at least some of the world’s ills corrected, then –

Then he would do it. Return to shadow, chill and cold and _familiar_. Stand by himself against the tide of this place.

With the resolution firmly in mind, Talen slipped into the gray, wet evening beyond, the sky above dark as slate, the rains soft and warm as they trickled down his neck. He slid down from the balcony, shutting his mind to the persistent ache of his shoulders, the weakness in his hands, the moment he stepped past the curtains.

On the empty streets, he melted into shadows. Became nothing at all, became no one. And then he turned toward the harbour yet again, a shape coalesced from darkness edging through the forgotten pathways of Minrathous, a white city painted gray and umber in the dying light of day.

*

 

> ( _ **TRANSITION TO OUTLINE FORMAT**_. Please read Author’s Note for clarification if you’re super confused about why the heck I’m writing basically a gigantic summary of what’s happening.)

Talen works his way along the docks on the harbour, turning over the same ground he’s been revisiting since his fight. As usual, no new information appears: he slips over rooftops, eavesdrops on courtyards, even tries asking about that mysterious opiate, but to no avail. The night grows darker, and he’s no closer to any answers. It’s almost as if the city doesn’t _want_ him to find information, almost as if Dorian has someone closed it against him.

But Talen’s used to hunts that don’t flush out quarry. He knows it’s only a matter of time. The forces behind these awful operations – the murders, the strange dark magic, the attack, the kidnapped slaves – have been too active before to not continue moving forward. It’s clear their goals haven’t been reached, not with Cassius still rising to power, not with the city’s political landscape, in the higher and lower quarters, precisely as it was months ago.

With nothing to show for the evening’s search, and his pressing concern that Dorian will arrive back before Talen does, he makes a reckless decision – to revisit the same site where he was attacked only a fortnight past. As he slinks through the neighbourhoods that take him from his earlier searches to the warehouse in question, he feels uneasy.

If there are rumours about him circulating in Minrathous –

But Talen can’t take time to worry about that. If worse comes to worse, he’ll just have to declare himself and… Well, he could demand a meeting with the Archon, couldn’t he? And say what? _Fix your foul nation, or else_.

Which would see him swiftly removed from Minrathous and Tevinter would stay just as vile.

No, he can’t hope to change the place in those spheres. That’s firmly Dorian’s domain, fruitless though it will be. Instead, he moves through the gutters, through tunnels and beneath sagging eaves, near the brackish water and forgotten buildings. Here, no one would know him even if they’d met him under the brightness of his mantle of Inquisitor. Here, he is once again anonymous.

Talen pointedly ignores that, even when he’s not the Inquisitor, he has become _Dorian Pavus’s assassin_.

He approaches the warehouse carefully, quietly, avoiding any prying eyes as best he can – but it’s empty, silent, and Talen slowly begins to feel more comfortable. He starts poking around inside of the building, looking for anything out of the ordinary. But all he finds are shadows, dark and impenetrable. The smell of wet wood and seaweed. Oily smoke.

It’s then that he realizes he’s not alone.

His hand is on his dagger before he finishes the thought, and it takes only another heartbeat for him to see the flash of white. To recognize the eerie snarl, fixed in place.

Rilere.

She huffs, arms crossed hard across her angular body. _Foolish enough to return when your last trip so very nearly cost you your life_ . _I told you_ , she says, _this is not your concern_.

His hand stays on the hilt of his dagger. _It is. As long as Tevinter keeps slaves, as long as –_

Rilere snorts, reaching to shove her mask out of her face. _Still your tongue and save your moral speech-making for more attentive ears._

Talen says that Rilere, out of everyone, ought to understand, as she’s a slave, as she _shouldn’t_ be a slave. At this line of discussion, she only appears more and more irritated, but Talen’s gotten good at talking over people when he feels he has the moral imperative. Rilere’s lips thin, her eyes flicking upward.

 _You have no understanding of this city,_ she says finally. _You have not the faintest grasp on what you have stumbled into, you and your magister._

 _Then what_ , he asks, _have we stumbled into?_

Rilere sighs, hard and brittle. Shifts her weight. _If you would like to know, we can afford to show you a glimpse. She would trust you that far, and so I must_.

The ‘she’ in question remains unnamed, but Talen agrees to follow Rilere to a holding on the very edge of the city. Distantly, he’s aware that Dorian will very likely return to an empty suite, but –

Finally, the pieces fall into place, and surely answers are worth more than Dorian’s fretting.

*

The walk is long, far longer than it should be because RIlere keeps insisting they double- and triple-back to cover their trail. _Minrathous is a city that watches_ , she says, as Talen grows irritated, his entire body one deep ache, the reminder of what his last foray into this mystery cost him. _It has eyes on every corner_.

She’s not wrong, but still he’s exhausted. Talen bites back complaints, and continues to follow in her silent steps.

With the dark night a black blanket above, the air still thick with rain yet to fall, they pass beneath the city wall along the water. Talen hesitates.

To leave Minrathous – though of course he wants to, wants nothing more than to finish his work here and leave this blighted city in the past – seems to be precisely the thing Dorian would call _reckless_. To leave it with a strange woman, one who works for a mysterious owner involved in the trafficking of slaves and production of opiates, seems reckless even by Talen’s standards.

Then again, Rilere did save his life, and if she wanted to do him harm, she could have very easily managed so far.

Unless her owner wants Talen for himself, thinks him troublesome, is concerned about his proximity to Dorian or Cassius or…

The lure of finally understanding what’s been happening around him for weeks is too strong to resist. They leave the city and set out toward an estate on the water, one that’s built into the towering hillside, its windows pinpricks of light in the distance. Waves crash against the cliffs below, and the skies once again open up, pattering down hard, cold rain.

He’s dripping wet when they arrive, and he aches down to his bones. At the door, a series of armed elves. Slaves, he thinks, from the way their eyes stutter downward for a moment, the pull of their foreheads toward the earth, but none of them are collared, none wear the traditional markings, and when he and Rilere draw nearer, each one of them looks him squarely in the eye.

The house itself seems carved from the cliff face, pale and simple, though it towers high above them. The windows seem bright against the darkness, but this close Talen can see that the light is faltering, the interior revealing nothing, though he’s outside looking in. Still, he can’t be certain this isn’t a trap, but then –

Anything could be. He can’t live his life in the safety of Skyhold. He left his clan to _leave_ such confines, and he won’t allow his concerns to govern him here. He and Rilere step inside the hillside house.

Inside, it’s cool and damp and does nothing to drive the chill from Talen’s bones. He stands dripping in the antechamber as Rilere shrugs off her broadsword, pushes her damp hair from her face.

 _She will be here shortly_ , offers the warrior, curt, before disappearing toward the back of the dim house. If he strains, he can hear voices – one, Rilere’s familiar timbre, solemn and sharp and bearing the syncopation of her heavy accent; the other is bright, surprised. A moment later, Talen still standing warily in the entryway, fingertips numb, hair dripping, but a throwing knife surreptitiously palmed, and a woman emerges from around a corner. Long, golden hair spills over one shoulder, her fingers glittering with gold and silver bands. She wears a shift dress and a pendant – a golden bird – dangles from her slender neck.

She looks delighted.

 _You’ll have to forgive Rilere,_ says the woman, with the same effortless confidence that marks any Altus when dealing with her lessers. She waves one hand, the flickering candlelight catching her rings, the glimmer of her dark eyes. _I_ do _adore her, but, sweet Andraste, if she thought of the finer things in life for even a moment, I fear it might break her. The fire is this way._ She tips her head toward an arched doorway, hands flashing out as she draws nearer.

Talen takes a half-step back, studying her. Shoulders tight.

For a moment, that certain smile slips. Then, _To take your cloak. You’re drenched, and still bearing bruises from the other week, I see. I offer you the hospitality of my house. Gladly, in fact._ Then, her painted smile curling into an even sharper curve, she adds, _Inquisitor_.

They size each other up for a moment. The silence stretches on. At the back of the long hallway, beneath the dark weight of the cliffside above them, Rilere appears, arms crossed. Scowling. _Put the blade away, fool_ , she growls. _If Septima wanted you injured --_

 _Well, I_ wouldn’t _, would I?_ insists the woman, whose confidence has melted away. Whose shoulders have dropped down, her hands now hovering stiffly between them, still waiting for Talen’s cloak. _Not when our goals are so neatly aligned. Not when you’ve made such strides. Why, the south is hardly the same! An elven woman standing behind the Orlesian throne? The Inquisition championing the downtrodden? Our own Archon cowed beneath the righteous gaze of a Dalish leader? Please, it is an honour to have you, though if you’d rather head back to Minrathous, that is, naturally, your prerogative_.

Talen’s stare flicks between them, these two women, Rilere hiding in the shadows, his would-be host gleaming beneath the candlelight.

 _I don’t know what you’re talking about_ , he says finally, shrugging off his cloak and placing it in Septima’s waiting hands. His gaze drags downward, hooks on the pendant – a golden bird. Iro’s scribbled note flashes to mind. _Septima Vulpera_ , Talen adds, as the woman in question heads into a room wherein roars a fire. _Oriolus_.

She shakes out his cloak, shoots him an indulgent smile over his shoulder. _Talen Lavellan,_ Septima says, _Inquisition_ . She wanders over to a settee by the fire and perching on its edge. She taps her ringed fingers against its cushion, beckoning him. _Well, as you know who I am and I know who you are…_ Rilere now stands in the doorway, blocking any exit.

Talen’s skin prickles, but he takes a seat, silent.

 _I ought to offer my thanks_ , says Septima. _On behalf of the realm, I suppose. For all you’ve managed_.

 _And what have I managed?_ he asks, casting a casual glance around the room, looking for alternatives should everything go south. Still, his body complains of cold and hurt and weariness, but he refuses to give in. Refuses to acknowledge that she _knows_. This stranger, who is linked intimately to a black market organization that nearly rules the lower quarters of the city – she can be nothing good. Though if Rilere is her slave –

Septima starts to answer, but Talen cuts her off. _Did you lie to the escaping slaves?_ _Was it you who had them trapped, murdered?_

 _Was it – Sweet Maker_ . She recoils, looks deeply offended. _Was it – those were_ my _people, I’ll have you know, and_ –

 _Your people_ , he repeats, straightening, heart pounding. This woman, he thinks, is a key part of the ugly mess in Minrathous. Her hand is one that’s seen countless people to misery, to continued suffering. _You can’t own others. It’s –_

Behind them, a thick sound of disgust. _He does not_ listen _, Septima. I have told you this much. Dalish, the slaves we saw murdered were ones she sought to spirit to freedom. A foolish, laborious task, but one she treats as her personal duty._

The conversation continues, Septima choking down her very obvious offence and explaining that, yes, Oriolus is a key force in seeing Tevinter slaves to freedom. Because Oriolus has the market cornered on this new opiate, one of Septima’s devising, and because it’s dangerous to produce, she can buy large quantities of slaves and it will seem as if they merely perish under her roof. She has contacts in the south, ones she refuses to name when pressed, who help her establish new lives for those freed from the empire’s yoke. Indeed, Septima has one contact whom, she slyly mentions, _may have lined up a few pieces for me after your arrival. Unintentionally, but it only took three moments’ thought thereafter to determine your identity._

 _Rilere didn’t see anything, then. After I was attacked,_ he says, thinking back to the evening when he had to open a rift. That was how he’d assumed Septima knew his identity, after some thinking.

 _Beyond your blood over the stone, no_ , says Rilere. _But any magister who spared a moment of attention would know you. That they haven’t yet determined –_

Septima waves her hand dismissively. _Hardly._ Of course _no one would know. Magisters have their heads so far up their asses that they can’t see anything beyond their painted smiles_.

Harsh words for an Altus, Talen thinks, but Septima explains that she’s Soporati. She’s clawed her way into money and power, which proves one thing: that Tevinter is built on the backs of those who don’t hold political power. They do all of the work and receive none of the power, power which, by rights, ought to belong to everyone, she says. The Imperium might be great, Septima continues, but it must first break free of the Magisterium, of this bizarre system that holds it firmly in place. Rilere, he learns, poses as Septima’s slave to further their purposes, but they hold equal office in Oriolus. It’s a point that Septima reiterates when speaking on the evils of her nation, its corruptions and its vices. _The Imperium would see a woman like Rilere work herself to death, instead of putting her fine mind to use_ , Septima says finally, eyes flashing. _When I found her –_

Rilere scoffs. _Septima –_

 _Don’t interrupt, amata_ . _I would see every slave wrested free from Tevinter and the Imperium crumble before –_

She is, Talen thinks distantly, a woman after his own heart, her eyes flashing, her ringed fingers clenching, as she launches into an impassioned diatribe against the nation that continues to see her lover as _less than_. His stare flicks between the two women, Rilere’s tight and irritated expression, Septima’s flushed cheeks, and he thinks that finally he’s found people he can believe in. People he can trust.

Rilere, for her part, makes a gravelly comment about Septima’s passions being often counterproductive. _Had she her way, we would burn every slave market in Minrathous, only to see them build more the moment we turned our backs. If we hope to change this nation, it must be a change to its very foundations. A lasting change._

Worthy allies, and ones who’ve laid out a clear path: Pluma needs to be tracked, and the man at its helm – Breccan Casses, the name Iro gave Talen weeks past – held to account. The organization repeatedly interferes with Septima’s work and has been making strides toward dominating Minrathous’s black market. If Pluma gain control, all Septima and Rilere have worked for may be lost.

Answers, then, but ones that open up other lines of inquiry. He asks about the assassinations, but neither Rilere nor Septima have any information. _Though our partner has spoken much of those events and the pall they’ve cast over the season,_ Septima admits. _The magisters grow wary, and many an avenue has been closed that might have otherwise been pursued._

 _Your partner?_ Talen asks. Because if they have an ally in the magisterium, it’s something Dorian ought to know. That might be the one productive avenue these endless parties have to offer: an actual ally, one with a hand in meaningful difference.

Septima waves a dismissive hand. _A name you need not know, not yet. It’s a precarious position our friend occupies, and secrecy is understandably appealing. I do think our path is clear, however, if you would care to offer assistance: we find Casses and we destroy Pluma. Whatever they work toward, it’s certainly not to the best interest of our most vulnerable.I made a great many promises, of new beginnings and different lives, and they’ve all resulted in bloodshed. I would see that corrected, and equal punishment meted out on our perpetrators_.

 _On that, we agree_ , says Rilere, voice low.

And Talen agrees as well, though he’s uneasy that there is another player operating whose name he doesn’t know. He quietly resolves to do some searching in the Altus neighbourhoods to see if he can’t round up likely candidates: someone who’s in Minrathous for the season, who has an eye on a new and different Imperium. Someone who might almost sound like Cassius, were it not for the growl with which Rilere says his name, or the last words Septima says to Talen before he heads back toward the city.

 _Be wary_ , she says, handing him back his cloak as he heads toward the door. _You stand next to a viper. I’ve watched Cassius Niteo for years as he’s clawed his way into the magisterium. A man such as that hardly decides on what a nation ought to be without ulterior motive, however loudly he champions progress_ . _There is sadly little resembling altruism among magisters: never forget that this is Tevinter, and those who play in the spheres of the Altus gamble with life and death without batting an eye. They are not out people._

Talen wonders if she’s right, and the thought casts dark shadows over his relationship with Dorian.

Resolved to meet again, Talen and Rilere travel back to the city, the sky above finally clearing and the path before the lit with moonlight. The evening is quiet and still save for the crashing of waves, the smell of salt air, and the sense of purpose that will carry him back into the belly of the beast.

 


End file.
